Journey School Stories

So...... What Exacly Is A Weir

2012-02-07T18:37:00.000-08:00

In last week's post, I implied that our budding Pastured Poultry program operated as a net or trap to capture and retain fertility in the soil of our small farm. It's a pretty straightforward concept, one of the foundation principles of Permaculture: The waste from one activity provides the fuel for another activity. Especially since the majority of our chicken feed is grown in the County, and our birds will feed friends and neighbors in the County, this kind of resource cycle is beautiful in its simplicity.

But what of resources or customers that are outside of that inner cycle? Taran brought several gifts to Llonio's family including that initial flock of sheep and the wind-powered flour mill. Absolutely, Taran was nourished and gifted in return with the experience of a different perspective. He was never meant to stay at the little farm even though what he gave to Llonio's family and received from them would have long-lasting benefit. In our culture of private ownership and individual achievement, how do we make room for assets that aren't meant to be tied down?

Enter the weir. I grew up on the Columbia River so I know in my bones what a dam is. A dam completely, irrevocably alters the environment. A dam changes the nature of the river's flow to meet specific and limited tasks, many times prohibiting all other functions that flow used to serve. A dam must be intensely managed or it ceases to even serve the limited uses for which it was constructed. Mismanagement can have truly catastrophic consequences. Fish ladders, for example, must be integrated into the design and daily operation of a dam or salmon simply become extinct within the Riparian system above the dam. Once a constructed blockage in a functioning system is introduced, the continued benefits of that system are limited to those that can be identified and managed by other constructed means.

This is not a weir. While there are indeed many types of weirs, and technically, dams often incorporate weirs in their design, a weir is all about the laminar flow of water. A weir is designed to increase the time water spends in one place, to slow the flow without creating turbulence above or below the structure. A weir increases the contact time resources have with a specific section of the riparian ecosystem without changing the function of that system. Weirs let the nutrients and energy flow according to greater patterns of the natural system where the river finds its home and simply creates relatively calm spots where treasures (and trash) have a chance to drop out, or be plucked out, of the flow. Conversely, as illustrated by Taran's resumption of his quest, resources can find an easy re-entry into the greater flow from these points.

A weir is the place where the farm meets the greater flow of nature and culture. It's where our Permaculture farm inner cycle makes new Taran-like friends. While the systems of our farm is where we most love to spend our time, this year we will be putting much energy into the Weirs. I'm thrilled to announce one such: I've been hired as the Market Manager for the Wallowa County Farmers Market. While the Markets in Joseph and Enterprise have been operating for several years, this is only the second in which they've had a hired Manager. At my interview, I was not shy about my vision for the gathering of Wallowa County farmers, craftsmen, and neighbors. And oh baby, do I have ideas!!! Stay tuned.......

Building a Weir

2012-01-25T12:51:00.000-08:00

Read full Weir Chapter here.
" Looking at his handiwork, Taran felt a stirring of pride for the first time since leaving Craddoc's valley. But with it came a vague restiveness. "By rights," he told Gurgi, "I should be more than happy to dwell here all my life. I've found peace and friendship - and a kind of hope, as well. It's eased my heart like balm on a wound." He hesitated. "Yet, somehow Llonio's way is not mine. A spur drives me to seek more than what Small Avren brings. What I seek, I do not know. But, alas, I know it is not here."
He spoke then with Llonio and regretfully told him he must take up his journeying again. This time, sensing Taran's decision firmly made, Llonio did not urge him to stay, and they bade each other farewell.
"And yet," Taran said, as he swung astride Melynlas, "alas, you never told me the secret of your luck."
"Secret?" replied Llonio. "Have you not already guessed? Why my luck's no greater than yours or any man's. You need only sharpen your eyes to see your luck when it comes, and sharpen your wits to use what falls into your hands."
Taran gave Melynlas rein, and with Gurgi at his side rode slowly from the banks of Small Avren. As he turned to wave a last farewell, he heard Llonio calling after him, "Trust your luck, Taran Wanderer. but don't forget to put out your nets!"

I am a very visual person. Very. So while the concept of using Lloyd Alexander's Prydain Chronicles chapter "The Weir" as a lifestyle foundation makes fabulous logical and practical sense to me, it wasn't until I could see the picture that I felt anchored into the plan.

One early morning before work, in that slippery time between sleeping and waking, I could feel the great rush of time and energy flowing past me. Not a slow, gentle flowing but light speed - like when the Star Trek Enterprise goes into warp speed and all the star specks become streaming luminescent lines, so many it almost looks like a solid bank of light, and the feeling of speed is undeniable. Yet, I was still, calm. "Oh," I thought, "just like Llonio's farm near the river."

We are all in the flow of time, culture, nature - there's no getting around reality. But how we are here is a choice. We've chosen to be apart from the rush - not by dropping out or falling behind, no longer by trying to get out in front and lead. We've chosen just to be still. To say, "We have enough, we've found the end of the rainbow and it really was in our home all along." Just like Llonio, we recognize the great and small treasures flowing all around us, some of it wholly unacknowledged for its value. But our Weir, our traps, have been pretty accidental. It's exciting to work within a context that's more than just "Not Mainstream". With a framework to build from, we can be intentional, purposeful - feel proactive rather than buffeted about by the random winds of fortune. Like Jeff asked "Have we checked our traps today? Do we recognize what's become available?"

So how do we set a trap on purpose? One way is the CASA Individual Development Account Jeff has almost completed. The IDA is an incredible program - check it out and see if you can access it in your community. We will be utilizing Jeff's IDA to build a Pastured Poultry operation. As our Llonio luck would have it, the Oregon legislature passed HB2872 last year allowing on-farm processing and sales of up to 1000 birds per year. We are so proud of the chicken Jeff produces.

I am especially excited for the education module of Lucky Farm Chicken. Pasture rehabilitation is a phenomenal benefit of moving the portable chicken coops to fresh pasture every day. We lease 10 acres from a wonderful family who purchased hillside land 40 years ago, put in a house and a small barn/workshop and great fences. The fields have never been abused but neither have the been intensively managed in atleast the last decade. Jeff, in classic I-love-this-guy-so-much form, has calculated a detailed program for renewing the fertility and integrity of the soil. When he first started describing the feed to meat and waste conversion as it relates to manure distribution, I remembered the powerful documentary "The Power of Community: How Cuba Survived Peak Oil." The film explores Cuba post Soviet Union:

"When the Soviet Union collapsed in 1990, Cuba’s economy went into a tailspin. With imports of oil cut by more than half and food imports cut by 80 percent, people were desperate. This fascinating and empowering film shows how communities pulled together, created solutions, and ultimately thrived in spite of their decreased dependence on imported energy."

I saw this film in 2007 and was deeply impressed by the impact decades of petro-chemical fertilizers had on Cuba's ability to feed itself. In short, the soil was dead. Without regular, recurring application of the fertilizers, nothing would grow. Do you know who saved the day? Composters and their worms. Scientists and farmers and regular people who knew that to bring life back to the soil, massive infusions of natural fertilizers must be gathered, cured, and worked into the dirt. It wasn't easy and it wasn't tidy but it was incredibly effective. What's more, healthy soil is self-sustaining. Talk about a Weir to gather treasures, the soil has always been such!

Learning a Different Way

2012-01-11T19:43:00.000-08:00

. When Taran then spoke of seeking pasture for the sheep, Llonio nodded briskly.
"Why, here shall they stay, and my thanks to you." he exclaimed. "There's no grazing fresher and sweeter, and no sheepfold safer. We've seen to that and labored since the first thaw to make it so."
. "But I fear they may crowd your own flock," Taran said, though he admired Llonio's pastureland and the stoutly built enclosure, and would have been well content to leave the sheep with him.
. "My flock?" Llonio answered, laughing. "I had none until this moment! Though we've been hoping and waiting and the children have been talking of little else. A lucky wind it was that brought you to us. Gowein, my wife, needs wool to clothe our young ones. Now we'll have fleece and to spare."
. "Wait, wait," put in Taran, altogether baffled, "do you mean you cleared a pasture and built a sheepfold without having any sheep at all? I don't understand. That was work in vain--"
. "Was it now?" asked Llonio, winking shrewdly. "If I hadn't, would you be offering me a fine flock in the first place; and in the second, would I have the place to keep them? Is that not so?"
. "But you couldn't have known," Taran began.
. "Ah, ah," Llonio chuckled, "why, look you, I knew that with any kind of luck a flock of sheep was bound to come along one day. Everything else does!"

My mind loves the idea of this idea. I slide right up to it, circle round, peer over the paddock fence and can almost imagine myself behaving this way. But not quite. I've got 45 years of practice chasing the next step. You know - get good grades so you can get into a good college, get that Degree so you can get a good job, work diligently so you can retire, yada yada yada.....

The idea of being still, polishing the tools and resources I've already gained seems so, well, lazy. If you aren't chasing the next step, the bigger better thing, aren't you just settling? But when I take stock of my skills, what I know and what I can do, I'm glad to see my favorite things: permaculture, herbal medicine, physical fitness, clothing design, food preservation and powerful nutrition. I am also overwhelmed by how much I still have to learn and to do within these areas. Permaculture truly isn't real if it's still sitting on a bookshelf and the green medicine chest does no good if I've never taught my family how to use the herbs when I'm too ill to help myself. I could indeed spend a lifetime deepening my understanding and honing my crafts, both for myself and to share with others.

Conventional wisdom says this would all be great if I could somehow make a living at it. And just like that, I lose sight of the idea and am off chasing a new business plan. That path is a well-traveled Express Lane with no outlets for many many miles. I'm getting better at pulling over to check the map sooner rather than later but it still requires a stiff discipline.

Recently though, I've learned a new trick. The map reference I'm using isn't the end goal but rather my home point. Stated in terms of Llonio and Taran, I try not to chase all over the countryside after a flock of sheep. Jeff placed this in perfect context when he shared with me his thoughts about a new book reviewed in a NY Times article by Jane Brody. The book, "30 Lessons for Living" (Hudson Street Press) offers advice from more than 1,000 older Americans from different economic, educational and occupational strata who were interviewed as part of the ongoing Cornell Legacy Projects. Brody writes:

"ON HAPPINESS Almost to a person, the elders viewed happiness as a choice, not the result of how life treats you. A 75-year-old man said, “You are not responsible for all the things that happen to you, but you are completely in control of your attitude and your reactions to them.” An 84-year-old said, “Adopt a policy of being joyful.”

Jeff felt that Llonio had that attitude and could make lemonade from lemons. He was also patient and very creative. Stuff would come his way which most people wouldn't even realize was passing so closely because they would be too busy working to acquire new things - off chasing a flock of sheep. Like the elders, Llonio recognized that the stream was always moving, always bringing stuff with it. He couldn't choose what life brought him, but he did recognize that it was something. He just needed to be good at trapping those offerings and eventually the accumulated resources could indeed make something quite extraordinary.

Jeff, impressed by Llonio's humility in learning to see what life offered him, is also inspired by his diligence in trapping it. Scraps from others' lives are treasured finds. So when Taran showed up, the trap had been set. Not in a deceitful manner as in getting something for nothing, but with a joyful curiosity and patience for what life brings and where it takes us.

I in turn was impressed, inspired, and soothed by Jeff's sweet call to action, "Who knows what will come our way today. Do we have the vision to see it and have we set the trap to bring it into our lives?"

What the River Brought Us

2012-01-02T11:11:00.000-08:00

Read the full Weir Chapter text here.

" "How then," Taran exclaimed, feeling perplexed as he had ever been, "do you count on baskets and nets to bring you what you need?" He looked at the man in astonishment.
"That I do," replied Llonio, laughing goodnaturedly. "my holding is small; I work it as best as I can. For the rest - why, look you, if I know one thing, it's this; Life's a matter of luck. Trust it, and a man's bound to find what he seeks, one day or the next."
"Perhaps so," Taran admitted, "but what if it takes longer than that? Or never comes at all?
"Be that as it may," answered Llonio, grinning. "If I fret over tomorrow, I'll have little joy today."
So saying, he clambered nimbly onto the weir, which Taran now saw was made not to bar the flow of water but to strain and sift the current. Balancing atop this odd construction, seeming more cranelike than ever as he bobbed up and down, bending to poke and pry among the osiers, Llonio soon gave a glad cry and waved excitedly.
Taran hurriedly picked his way across the dam to join him. His face fell, however, when he reached Llonio's side. What had caused the man's joyful shout was no more than a discarded horse bridle.
"Alas," said Taran, disappointed, "there's little use in that. The bit's missing and the rein's worn through."
"So be it, so be it," replied Llonio. "That's what Small Avren's brought us today, and it will serve, one way or another." He slung the dripping bridle over his shoulder, scrambled from the dam, and with Taran following him set off with long strides through the grove of trees fringing the river."

So..... what has the river brought the Mathias family this week? A reminder that we can indeed rely on what we know, what we can learn, and what we can create to help ourselves.

A couple weeks after I wrecked our beautiful truck, I developed a horrible rash on virtually every bit of skin I possess. Like the worst chicken pox stories you've ever heard, I itched from my toes to my ears. The rash however, did not present with a typical, diagnosable pattern. It wasn't chicken pox or topical dermatitis from an external allergen. We could identify nothing that I'd done differently in my diet or environment that could have caused the reaction. And, as any little kid can tell you, all the messy oatmeal baths and chalky lotions only help the grown-ups who are trying to make you feel better feel better. Allergy medication did finally make the itch sensation bearable but it never eliminated it nor did it remove the odd thickening and texturization of my skin.

After two weeks of the torture, I began focusing on supporting my liver and cleansing the blood with lots of raw beet salad, nettle tea, and clay baths. It made my heart and mind feel better to be doing something. I'd reached the conclusion that my body was trying to process the residual toxins from the stress of the crash and dealing with the insurance company as well as the chemicals in the pain medication and dissolvable sutures. In addition, this was the last month of the year - 4th quarter for an accounting and payroll firm. I added a supplement specifically for my adrenal glands, put my back to the load, and pushed on.

Christmas arrived with a wonderful gift from Jeff's parents: DVD's from the Great Courses company. We watched some lectures from the Mysteries of the Microscopic World course, including a fabulous lecture on the 1918 Flu. A few days later, we switched to the Stress and Your Body DVD because I couldn't watch the subsequent microscopic worm lectures - they made me itch so bad I couldn't stay in the same room!!!

The river swept the banks, whispering soothing sounds and brought us the lecture titled "The Nuts and Bolts of the Stress Response". And I remembered. Jeff and I had studied the 1918 flu from the book Herbs and Influenza by Kathy Abascal while on Vashon Island where she makes her home. Wikipedia does an admirable job providing a synopsis of the Pandemic, drawing heavily on John M. Barry's noted text The Great Influenza: The Epic Story of the Greatest Plague in History. The website states:

"Most victims were healthy young adults, in contrast to most influenza outbreaks, which predominantly affect juvenile, elderly, or weakened patients...Tissue samples from frozen victims were used to reproduce the virus for study. This research concluded, among other things, that the virus kills through a cytokine storm (overreaction of the body's immune system), which perhaps explains its unusually severe nature and the concentrated age profile of its victims. The strong immune system reactions of young adults ravaged the body, whereas the weaker immune systems of children and middle-aged adults resulted in fewer deaths."

In his Great Courses lecture, Stanford University Professor Robert Sapolsky showed a similar response of the autonomic nervous system to chronic psychological stress. Our body's stress response systems simply doesn't turn off - it continues to trigger and complete fight-or-flight mechanisms even after the acute physical threat has ceased. My nervous system was in overdrive, and I had been shoveling coal in the firebox. It was one of those "D'oh" moments.

In the next days, I continued supporting the cleansing work of my liver but stopped focusing on the adrenal response. Instead of slathering my skin with creams meant to combat an allergen, I took hot baths and then, with the skin soft and pores open, I massaged in St. John's Wort oil. We'd gathered the flower last Summer in the edge zone between our farm and the wilderness forest and infused them in organic olive oil. In addition, I began taking the California Poppy tincture we made our first Summer here to help soothe my frazzled system. Four days later, I've mostly stopped itching. My skin is returning to normal and I've regained emotional equilibrium.

It's tough. I told Jeff that the height of an itching disease is a terrible time to start looking for a cure to the itch. It's almost impossible to think of anything but the itch. All I could manage was the top two or three items on the Priority List and then I was simply incapable of focus. This meant that I could go to work and function as an accountant but I was pretty detached from my coworkers and friends there. I could make birthday cakes and holiday dinners but I would have greatly preferred to be in the tub coated with clay than enjoying the celebration with my lovely family. That's no fun.

Not itching is much better. Not itching because I understood the imbalance and had the knowledge and resources at hand to restore health to my weary system ---- that's priceless.

Drum Roll Please.......

2011-12-24T10:45:00.001-08:00

Boy, that Mathias family sure knows how to roll with the punches. Give 'em lemons and they make orange juice, they can make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, they've aced the school of hard knocks, they're like a Timex - they take a lickin' and keep on........

Sigh.

Do you ever get the feeling that the universe is stuck in a rut and needs a swift kick to bump it into the next track? In our life, we seem able to get our feet under us and build slowly and carefully just to the point of relaxing when kchk, kchk, kchk.... we're hip-checked back to the starting gate. It's never been more horrible than we can accept. Just a flag moving the ball back to the first down line.

Lying flat on my back recovering from injuries that were miraculously minor for the circumstances, I caught myself whining. A lot. And yet, I was alive enough to whine. To lie in bed in a solid little house in the middle of fertile fields with laughter coming from the next room as my family called Rock Paper Scissors for what music to play next. This is our Life, with a capital L. It's all I've ever wanted - to be happy and healthy with my family, together. After all, there really was no crisis, we simply had to rebuild. Again.

Sigh.

Each time the whining voice entered my head, so did the booming guilt voice. I was alive - by the grace of God, I was alive. What business did I have whining about anything - I who had so very much?

I finally snapped back at both the whining and the guilt: It wasn't about what I had - not about my stuff, my money, not even my health or the love of my family. It was about perspective.

You see, I really do believe that I am here for a purpose, that my choices matter, that things do happen for a reason. So, when we get knocked back to retrace the same steps over and over again, what is the point? What am I missing? What do I still need to learn about living in the moment, facing each day with a clear conscience and a positive attitude? We know how to start over, to be grateful and aware. We know how to re-assess, regroup, and create from scratch. We've proven not only that we can make-do but that we actually excel at it.

Wait. We ARE good at it.

Really good.

Just what am I still trying to prove? And to whom? Maybe it isn't the universe that is stuck in a rut after all.

More and more, frustration and fear color the observations from my friends, acquaintances, strangers in the check-out line, newscasters, and publishers. What if they lose everything? How can they possibly go forward if everything they've built up, counted on, worked for, is gone? We can help with that. Even more poignant are the voices of the We Generation on whose shoulders the future will fall - they struggle to even get a foot on the first rung of the status quo ladder. How can they find their unique niche in a saturated job market, put down roots in foreclosure neighborhoods? How can they build their own lasting Dream from the scraps of a system that has no use for them except as consumers? We can help with that.

Our framework for this weekly tutorial on a life lived differently is a short chapter from The Prydain Chronicles by Lloyd Alexander. I've installed a permanent link to the text in the "Journey" button on the lefthand column and will be referring to it regularly. Just click the "Journey" button to read now and anytime. While I have long adored the book and this passage in particular, I only recently heard the persistent melody under and over the whining, guilting, snapping voices in my head naming it an exceptional synopsis of living on the abundant edge.

The world is changing - to what I certainly cannot tell. But all the ingredients for health and happiness are still at our fingertips. Becoming adept in your ability to see the resources and in your skill to implement a resilient life takes experience, good humor, and confidence. We can help with that.

The Thirteenth Piglet

2011-10-30T11:51:00.000-07:00

Henrietta, the sow at our neighboring farm, graced us with twelve baby pig-igs in the middle of the night on October 27th. Or so we thought...

Dad, Rae, and I traipsed across the pasture that next morning ready to see the babies and 'Oooh' and 'Awww' over them all. When we got there, all the little ones were curled up with their mama, either sleeping in a piggy pile or maniacally trying to find a spot to nurse. Rae had the camera so she snapped a bunch of pictures and Dad grabbed a heat lamp to warm the nest.

All of a sudden from where I'm standing on the edges, we hear little baby pig noises. I look down and right by my foot is a piglet! He was five feet away from Henrietta and had probably been there for quite a while, unable to find his way back to his brothers and sisters. He was freezing cold. Dad picked him up and tucked him in his coat.

Dad had to go milk so the babe was handed over to me, and I put him in my coat and sat down by the heater. But that wasn't getting him warm fast enough. So, in true Zoe form, I put him under my shirt, up against my belly. He was absolutely freezing, and I was not very optimistic about him coming through. Sometimes life is like that.

But then Dad came in with an O'Douls bottle, the only bottle he could find that would fit the nipple we had. He filled it with hot water and gave it to me to hold against the little pig-ig. That's when things started to really turn around for the better. Dad went back out to finish milking. He came back in a bit later and we dumped the water out of the bottle and put some warm milk in. Rae had a heck of a time trying to get milk out of the nipple into the little guy's mouth.

We stayed by the heater with the baby's head peeking out from under my shirt and Rae trying to get him to eat for probably an hour. And he kept getting warmer and warmer, until finally it was my belly that was cold and the piglet that was warm. We took a break from feeding him and let him rest for a bit.

A while later he woke back up and started moving around. He started to suck on my finger, so we took him back out to Henrietta. He settled right in to try and nurse. We watched him for a bit, and he held his own against his bigger siblings.

We named him Fonzie, because as Dad said 'Fonzie's cool'. Bad humor! The little guy went from not going to make it, to enthusiastically trying to nurse and squirming around with his brothers and sisters. Sometimes life is like that.

Words to Dispel Mob Mentality

2011-08-05T12:27:00.001-07:00

Wow! Have I found a website to touch bases with when the "real" world is just too overwhelming in its absurdity. Courtesy of a link from David Spangler at Lorian Association, I found this jewel of an article among hundreds and hundreds:

There are at least 250,000 words in the English language. But to think that English -- or any language -- could hold enough expression to convey the entirety of the human experience is naive. For example, 'Toska,' from Russian, which is a kind of dull ache of the soul. Or 'Mamihlapinatapei,' from Yagan, describing the wordless, yet meaningful look shared by two people who both desire to initiate something but are both reluctant to start. Here are twenty such examples where other languages have found the right word and English is either speechless -- or too verbose. from 20 Untranslatable Words from Around the World

Those Arms

2011-07-30T18:36:00.000-07:00

I love this picture of myself.

Except my arms.

My beautiful girls and I had gone out to a lovely little pond behind our farm to take portraits for Jeff's birthday gift. The weather quickly, unexpectedly turned crabby. Thunder pounded over our heads and lightning flashed out of sync with the camera. We were just about to abandon the effort when RaeLani, camera in hand, shouted "Mom, stop right there....now...raise your arms, a bit more....Good! Got it!"

Later at home, I saw this picture and thought, "Oh, I love that picture of myself."

"Except my arms."

When I was a brash young woman, I watched my vibrant, active Grandma one day - she was so pretty. Except her arms. "Tsk, tsk," I thought, "she should do something about that."

My 45th birthday is coming up quick. I love my life. I finally love my strong, resilient, agile body. Except those arms. Sigh. I totally deserve those arms.

Happy Birthday to a Most Wonderful Friend!

2011-07-29T12:11:00.001-07:00

Happy Birthday to You!

We live in a Zoo!

We wish we had a monkey,

'Cuz we'd send it to you!!

A Figment Cover to Share

2011-07-26T19:09:00.000-07:00

Here's a book cover for you!

High Summer

2011-07-25T11:52:00.000-07:00

Wow, it's been a long time since the last post. Without apology or excuses, I'll just jump right back in. It is finally Summer here in Wallowa County and finally hot, hot, hot. Jeff ran outside in a panic yesterday morning at 9:00 when the hoophouse was already up to 128 degrees inside. We have a low tech design with no fans, no automatic door openers, no levered windows. In fact, a lot of our farm operates on a pretty low-tech level. While getting started this way was less expensive and easier to replace or replicate, the everyday job of just living on our little farm is quite labor intensive.

I love it.

Sharon Astyk - Mom, Writer, and Fellow Visionary - captures my feelings for our hard working life in this blogpost: http://sharonastyk.com/2011/07/19/in-high-summer/

We live looking forward. We move on to the next season as the work we do now itself lays the groundwork for the fall, winter and spring crops that we will subsist upon. We are watching the boys grow big and strong in summer, envisioning the next year and the next as they mature. We live looking back, remembering as I pull this crop of bolted lettuce the cold, wet spring day I transplanted it. As each goat delivers, we recall the February day that I released does and bucks to their mutual delight, and always remember the summer farm childhood we all lived or dreamed of. We live in the moment, delighting in the full milk pail, the first harvest, the sweetness of berries, the warmth of the sun, the cold beer in the shade, the first time the boys use their pocketknives or climb to new heights. At high summer, more than at any other moment, past, present, future come together and simply are. The days are so long, they seem to be infinite. We know it is merely an illusion, but we revel in summer, stripped of limits, timeless and beautiful.

2010-12-16T14:49:00.000-08:00

Sweet Advent Season To You All

2010-12-04T12:34:00.000-08:00

On a Dark and Stormy Night....

2010-11-02T17:20:00.001-07:00

A sweet farm girl

Slipped on her super decoder spy necklace

and became

Goth Girl

Defender of Pink Princesses and
white fluffy puppies
everywhere.

To Our Friends on the Other Side

2010-10-28T18:55:00.000-07:00

What About Your Inheritance?

2010-10-05T17:44:00.001-07:00

Ilona's Response:

To some inheritance means that when a relative dies they will receive a portion, or all, of the late relatives possessions. Money, land, or slaves. To others it means priceless memories. Extraordinary, or maybe just ordinary turned extraordinary, keepsakes.
Sometimes inheritance means the simple matter of blue eyes from a blue eyed mother, brown hair from a brown haired father, a crooked tooth from a crooked toothed grandfather.
Once I had land, keepsakes, a dowry to inherit. No slaves, my Papa did not hold with such abhorrence.
The only thing I stand to inherit now are a rickety wagon, two tired horses, five dogs, and a bow. And that has to be shared with three brothers and a sister. Though a large part of me is filled with bitterness and sorrow for what we lost, I do recognize what we have now.
I do recognize the import of these things I have inherited. The soft foot step, so soft not even the sharp eared lynxes can hear me; that is from Papa. The rock hard steadiness of my hands, the swift clarity of decision; that comes from my mother. My dark look from my dark father and grandfather. And the curse of dreams from my beloved Nana.
Yes, these details of myself, these substances of myself that no one can
take, these are my inheritance.

Excerpt from Assignment #2: Inheritance:

"For your second prompt, please explore the nature of inheritance. What did your character inherit from her ancestors? Start with the physical things, perhaps hair color or right/left hand preference. Which elder passed on those glorious eyes? Did perhaps those same beautifully colored eyes come with less than perfect vision? If so, did glasses become their frame or their disguise and how was that choice affected by the attitude/behavior of the original bearer? This same perspective can be applied to so many of the gifts and even so-called curses we inherit from our family....
After exploring what your character has inherited, find some quiet time and space where you can imagine what one thing you would give as a legacy to your great grandchild. As straightforward as this sounds, I have experienced the most transformational meditation around this question.... This vision is like a picture I carry around in my heart locket. Every decision is weighed against that picture, each choice is compared to the unspeakable joy and rock solid love of that moment. However this meditation manifests for you, find a way for your character to make it real. Build it right into the fabric of her being so that her choices are impacted by the determination to achieve that legacy."

Your Life, Your Story, Let's Get Started

2010-09-28T12:13:00.000-07:00

Alicia's Response:

"I've put the memory of that night away like a room with one door in and one door out. So clearly do I remember being the girl who stands outside that room, hand on the doorknob, ready for anything. Funny, when people say that..."ready for anything"...they don't really mean anything. They mean a happily-ever-after, tall, dark, and handsome or short, blonde, and rich kind of anything. They certainly don't mean crushing terror or retching pain. They don't mean death.

That girl who stands there one hand on the door knob and one hand on her hip, tossing a fat glossy braid over her shoulder, she certainly wasn't expecting that truck to come out of nowhere, barreling down a hill with no road, smashing into her car with no warning. In fact, when she opens the door and walks into that experience, that memory I don't think of, she tells herself "I didn't see it coming."

The girl on the other side of that room, through the Out Door, the one missing a hand, she makes sure she sees everything. her fat glossy braid lies heavy down the middle of her back. Her hand presses back against the door, holding it shut, pushing herself forward. She is not ready. But that's okay.

Because she will be. No matter how many more rooms she has to live through, next time, she will be ready.

Excerpt from Assignment #25: Experience as a Room

You’ve been with your character for several adventures and quiet moments alike by now. I’d like for you to pick one or two and imagine them as a room with two doors – one exclusively for entrance and the other exclusively for exiting. Take a while to get a comfortable image going because you are going to walk your character right smack into the middle of the scene....

When you have the scene clearly and lushly imagined, place your character outside the In Door. You may be able to feel their anticipation as their hand rests upon the door knob. This experience, this room, will change them. Your job is to record those changes. Begin by feeling deeply into the character to identify their Before portrait. You have the benefit of knowing the experience that awaits them and even how your character responded to the individual elements of the experience. Quickly, without over-analyzing, check into those memories and awareness of your character Before they entered the room."

Buy Assignment #25 $10.00

2010-09-25T19:39:00.000-07:00

I admitted to my homeschooled daughters a particular weakness in my own research skills. For good or bad, I tend to be obsessive in my investigation until I have found atleast one respected source that agrees with me. In my defense, all facts and opinions get fair consideration in the final analysis - I'm just not satisfied until part of the sampling of other opinions includes one that looks like mine.

Very often, this other source has been able to articulate my thoughts and feelings far better than I had, bringing clarity and expansion as well as familiarity. Such is the case with Dmitry Orlov's latest post on Club Orlov. If you've not read much of his work, time spent cruising around his blog will be well worth it. Mr. Orlov brings the task of Journey School Stories right into your lap with this excerpt:

But there is also an alternative: compose your own fiction instead of accepting anyone else's, then go ahead and turn it into reality. A good first step might be to write a short story. It can be very short, and it doesn't even have to be particularly interesting. Something as trivial as this might do for starters: “The next morning she woke up and, instead of having a bagel with cream cheese and a cup of coffee for breakfast, she fasted until sundown.” And then, the next morning, she woke up, and something curious happened: this short story came to life, and so it came to pass. Next came other stories, each a bit longer than the previous one, bridging the present and the future in new ways, and eventually spanning decades. And as these decades rolled by, these stories too came to life.

This, as I see it, is the best way forward in a depressed and increasingly demented and accident-prone country that is heading straight for collapse, where the present (reality, what people think is going on, common notions of the state of things) is degenerating into useless noise—the clamor of clueless but self-important people desperately begging you to continue giving them your attention, so that they can stuff your head with more “B”-rated trash. But if you ignore them long enough, they will go away. Don't hope, don't wish, don't dream, but do write your own fiction and use it to create a present that works for you. Invent places for yourself and for those you care about in your stories about the future, and then go ahead and live in them.

Towards this goal, we will begin posting excerpts from our own Journey School Character Development program. While we'd love to have you as full-fledged participants complete with your own character and seasonal gifts, this task is too important to each of us, to all of us, to make it solely contingent on the exchange of money. Each week, we'll post a bit of the Assignment for free, offer the purchase of a full PDF of the single Assignment for $10, or of course, the entire 26 Assignment program with Character and gifts for $300. Our family has been working through this program for personal healing and character development in our own fiction for quite some time. So, we'll also share our responses here on the blog and hosted on our website www.luckyfarm.us in character specific collections.

See you next week for the beginning of your unique story!

Assignment #1

2010-08-17T19:15:00.000-07:00

We've decided to share with you all excerpts from our Journey School Stories character development workshop. Zoe is first up with her response to Assignment #1, Childhood Memories. Best wishes, Lisa.

by Zoe Mathias

My name is Ilona Evenfrese.

When I was but a tiny infant, I remember being warm, and my mother was singing to me. Rocking back and forth, humming a soft lulling lullaby. Whenever I hear her singing it now I cannot understand the smooth guttural growling words, but though I can't quite recall the words I know I understood them then.

Smells waft through the warm air, isolated to the house by bars of icicles.

Nana and Inga are making bread. Sweet ginger bread with just a pinch of grape root ,"Shh Ilona, don't tell anyone. It's an Evenfrese secret.”

Let's see, a touch memory. Ah, that's it. When I was five years old my baby sister Maeve was born. That morning my Nana and Papa gave me a beautiful purple wool dress. I could feel the springy hairs of wool itching gently against my skin. That night Papa took me in to see Mama and baby Maeve. The baby had the softest skin, so soft I could hardly tell she was real.

I was just old enough to pull the string back on my little bow the first time Papa took me out with him and my big brothers. My father hunts at night, like the big cats. I met an owl that first time, as my Papa and brothers crept ahead. He caught me with his yellow gaze, and he whispered his name to me, the small word floated by my ears, carried by a silent wind.

For as long as I can remember that fleeting time that is between winter and spring is my favorite season. It seems like such a magical time, where life is waking up from a cold, death like sleep. The trees are stretching and reaching from skeletons in to lovely flowing creatures. When every gray has a tinge of pink, green, orange, red, purple, and yellow.

The bees buzz, and my tongue tastes again the absent flavor of gold, mellow reassurance that is honey.

I was eleven when they came. It was a clear October day, the kind of day that gets people ready for frost. They wore black coats with the insignia of a powerful, bloody house. A red boar with a long jagged scar carved into its shoulder. They threatened death if we didn't leave, and as good with a knife as my father was, he was a peaceful man. We left with one wagon filled with us, my brothers' dogs, my sister's cat, and a few dear things.

A month after we were exiled, my Nana disappeared. We looked high and low, but we did not find her. A week later I dreamed my Nana was in our ancestral graveyard. She was fighting one, two, three, four guards. As she put her old kitchen knife in one guard's belly, another drove a long bladed hunting knife in her side. Her red blood stained the snow over my grandfather's grave.

The next day a loyal family friend gave us the news that my Nana was dead, killed in our graveyard, but not before she gutted one of her attackers.

From that night on I have asked every god in the other world for a dreamless sleep.

€

Welcome Home Honey May

2010-07-03T17:27:00.000-07:00

We brought home our newest member of Journey School way back on June 3rd. It's seems paradoxically impossible to believe that it has been an entire month ago and at the same time, that she has not always been with us.

Our own little MaryLou was only a week old when Honey May was born at the small dairy next door. We'd spoken for the calf (if it would turn out to be a heifer calf) as soon as we knew the cow had been bred. We had been expecting a black calf and were quite excited at the idea of white, red, and black calves on our little farm. Our neighbor gave us a call early Saturday, May 29th -- a beautiful honey colored heifer calf was born that morning to her all black mama. After chores and coffee, we hurried over to meet our new baby. So soft, so sweet, so light colored!

Even earlier Sunday morning, we got another call from our neighbor - a call for help. Honey May's mom was down with Milk Fever. You may have never heard of milk fever, indeed we had not until exactly one week before when our sweet Gjynni was hit with the terrifying malady. I didn't blog about that. It shook me to my core for days afterward - honestly, I was nearly incoherent and still have difficulty finding words real enough to describe the experience.

Let me start slowly and I'll try not to lose my breath again. Milk fever especially effects dairy cows - within a day of calving, their bodies receive the signal "Need Milk!!" and they go into overdrive to produce milk for their baby. Sometimes, for complicated causes, their bodies demand more and more and more milk. Calcium is pulled from every source - blood, bone, organs - and the cow becomes rapidly, fatally chemically imbalanced.

We had been planting potatoes in our little inherited garden when I noticed Gjynni looking....... wrong. I mentioned my concern to everyone and asked that we all keep an eye on her. Within half an hour, we were leading her to a smaller pasture with more shade, offering kelp, salt, mineral block and a bucket of fresh water. Another 15 minutes later and I ran to the house to call our vet. He couldn't make it for an hour. We called our neighbors. By the grace of god, they came immediately bringing experience, knowledge, and calcium. At this time, I could have simply pushed over our gorgeous 1800 pound unflappable curious girl. If we didn't hold onto her halter, she just wandered in circles, becoming more and more unsteady and disoriented.

With increasing desperation, we offered everything in our toolbox of natural medicine - minerals, herbs, homeopathics and Reiki. It was actually in giving the Reiki that I began to lose my grounding. Gjynni simply felt less and less there. I have treated injury and disease under intense circumstances but never have I known that death was quietly waiting to step in the very next moment. And there was nothing I could do to stop it. There was no bleeding, no fever, no respiratory distress to be mitigated. She was simply dying and I couldn't stop it.

Our vet, however, could. He arrived within what I sincerely believe was minutes of losing Gjynni and immediately administered intravenous calcium. As quickly as she began walking away with death, she returned to us. Within about 45 minutes, she was standing solid if still not quite all better. It took a full day and a half before we let her go unobserved for more than a couple of hours. And believe me, we learned about Milk Fever and gathered all the tools we had no idea we needed just two days prior.

So when Linda called, we mobilized. Within 15 minutes, we had the cow propped upright, administered two tubes of oral calcium, had the liquid calcium warming in a bucket of water, and were loading the two syringes for subcutaneous injection. Our vet still had to come to the farm to administer calcium intravenously but death itself was never paged. The emotional difference in the two events is inconceivable.

I was reminded during that week of when we dehorned our bull calf Quincy. Honestly, if you believe you want and need to hone your first responder crisis skills, get a family cow. We have learned more, and learned more completely, about disease and injury by living closely with our animals than through any training or workshop. I think because these animals mean so much to us both practically and emotionally and yet are not valued in the same way by the rest of our culture (you can't call 911 for a cow), our level of stewardship simply must reach higher levels. I am proud of all that we have learned, proud of my amazing family, and drop-to-my-knees humbled and grateful for the resilience of our animal partners.

On a side note, Quincy grew up just fine. He's now the expectant father of not one but three calves next Spring and likely three more next Summer. While he probably won't be a long-term resident of Journey School, he has done his job beautifully and we are glad to have known him.

This Time Is Different

2010-06-14T12:04:00.000-07:00

One more post in response to the Gulf Oil disaster and then we want to introduce you to our second new calf. This article particularly caught my attention because it was published in the New York Times. Not a left wing bleeding heart blog or a radical environmental magazine but the NEW YORK TIMES for pete's sake. Maybe, maybe, we will finally get it. I hope you have time to read the entire article but if not, Mr. Mykleby's letter makes a very clear point.

“I’d like to join in on the blame game that has come to define our national approach to the ongoing environmental disaster in the Gulf of Mexico. This isn’t BP’s or Transocean’s fault. It’s not the government’s fault. It’s my fault. I’m the one to blame and I’m sorry. It’s my fault because I haven’t digested the world’s in-your-face hints that maybe I ought to think about the future and change the unsustainable way I live my life. If the geopolitical, economic, and technological shifts of the 1990s didn’t do it; if the terrorist attacks of Sept. 11 didn’t do it; if the current economic crisis didn’t do it; perhaps this oil spill will be the catalyst for me, as a citizen, to wean myself off of my petroleum-based lifestyle. ‘Citizen’ is the key word. It’s what we do as individuals that count. For those on the left, government regulation will not solve this problem. Government’s role should be to create an environment of opportunity that taps into the innovation and entrepreneurialism that define us as Americans. For those on the right, if you want less government and taxes, then decide what you’ll give up and what you’ll contribute. Here’s the bottom line: If we want to end our oil addiction, we, as citizens, need to pony up: bike to work, plant a garden, do something. So again, the oil spill is my fault. I’m sorry. I haven’t done my part. Now I have to convince my wife to give up her S.U.V. Mark Mykleby.”

Who Tortured the Pelicans

2010-06-11T12:00:00.000-07:00

Who Tortured the Pelicans?
We did.
I did.
When I drove to the store to buy chips and cheese and maple syrup.
Do you know how much fuel is burned to make syrup from sap?
Do you know the entire path from subterranean oil pockets to plastic wrap?
I do. And still I drive to the store.

I could tell you I have no choice.
What a big fat stinking lie.
I have a hundred options.
Some are hard. Others are even harder.
The easy ones are made easy by surrendering to the tide
of a million feet following a path set down as
The right way, the real world.
This path leads to a slimy red beach covered
with slaughtered pelicans.

But I am just one little ol' gal - I'm just a
Drop in the bucket. I cannot
Save the pelicans. Can I?
I can save maybe one pelican. Just like my
Child is one child. Her life would be worth
Choosing a different path. Or so I've prayed.
Please god, spare this one child.

Is one life worth following the hard choice?
Will I never eat maple syrup again?
I don't know, is it worth a pelican's life?

Stop Protesting, Begin Thinking

2010-06-02T18:47:00.000-07:00

I'm going to take a break from our regularly scheduled happiness. It would be wrong not to do so.

The news is full of "protests" - protesters advocating a boycott of BP gas stations, protesters angry at Israel's latest attack and justification, protesters demanding that Arizona behave as if they didn't indeed have unbearable crises they must address, protesters wanting the government to step in use a nuclear bomb to stop the flow of oil into the once rich Gulf, for God's sake. Every protester wants someone else to make things better, better according to their own perspective of how things should be.

Enough.

My heart aches so badly, I rant rather than speak. Fortunately, Fe at planetwaves.net is more than capable of speaking the words we each MUST hear.

There has been an incredible series of risks and innovations that have moved the world from the industrial to the virtual age. We’ve gone from steam engines to 4G networks in little over 100 years. We have invented ourselves to a place where we’ve eliminated distance between people on different continents, changed night into perpetual day and made the leap past our planet’s gravitational field into another part of our solar system. We have been supermen in that we have overcome the known boundaries of the world, exceeding well past them.

Longing for a new horizon has been hard wired in the consciousness of this country since it began, and indeed into the consciousness of humanity. Once we found our way to our furthest western shore, we unfortunately brought that consciousness to other nations, assuming it was our manifest destiny to use others’ resources to feed our material ambitions. We have gotten used to exploring the new boundaries: space, power, energy, chemistry, knowing that miracle cure, that mystic power, that marvelous new thing — regardless the cost to ourselves and others — was just around the corner. Our needs and ambitions have far exceeded our planet’s capacity to cope and right now, there is no horizon but deep water. We haven’t invented anything yet that can save us from ourselves.

I’m not advocating halting our quest to knowledge and innovation. On the contrary, we need to constantly improve the quality of our lives. But that improvement is not going to be from our gadgets, toys and vehicles or for that matter our energy sources. Our improvement needs to be in the quality of our thoughts and feelings, which affect how we live. It begins not with a product but with me. I need to take a look at what I’ve been thinking and reacting to and realize that I must confront my consumerism, my vanity, my insecurity and my desire to isolate myself from people different from me. This is more than just about driving too much. Its about what I spend my time on, what I’m chasing around pointlessly for, and what cost these pursuits have on our world.

Part Three: Hope Defined

2010-05-29T18:03:00.000-07:00

by RaeLani Mathias

Hope is a primary color. It has a lot of smaller words under it, like other smaller colors. All those other smaller colors are easier to define but when you try to define a primary color, it's a lot harder. It isn't easy to define the primary color because you can define the bottom colors with the primary. But when you try to define a primary color you can't use the bottom colors because they aren't big enough to explain or even express the primary color because the primary color is so powerful.

Hope is one of the main building blocks for our world's society. It seems to glue things together in a way that no one can see, but just encourages a feeling that life will be okay. It gives comfort to those who are scared.

Hope is a word that most people use - like a person who hopes for a better day tomorrow for things to start a new way, and a person who hopes for a good harvest.

I have hope for two things right now. Hope that the government can get its act together before something bad happens, and hope that my mom doesn't give me another essay like this one again.

I think hope is important. It gives a sense of strength and a will to break free from what holds you down.

Meet the newest member of Journey School

2010-05-24T17:43:00.001-07:00

For Morty Sunshine's first birthday he got a little sister! Marylou [pronounced mar-YUH LOE] Hope Stanfield nee Kruckman was born on May 15^th, almost exactly one year after her brother. He was born around four in the afternoon, she was born around five. Not only do these two share a birthday, but their mama, Gjynni, decided to have both of them when we were gone.

Marylou has a last name of Stanfield because we had left that morning for the district track meet which was held in Stanfield. We were gone all day and didn't get back until seven pm. Our neighbor told us that Gr, Rae's livestock guardian dog, started barking around five, heralding Marylou's arrival into our world.

Marylou is named after the donkey in the movie Holes. As the story goes, Marylou was over one hundred years old, and really liked onions. We're hoping Marylou the calf doesn't eat too many onions when she comes in to milk. We pronounce Marylou as mar-YUh LOE because in the movie Stanley Yelnats is teaching Hector “Zero” Zaroni to read and at one point in the movie Zero and Stanley take cover under a boat named Marylou. But because Zero is just learning to read, he pronounces it with all the letter sounds.

It's one of our top favorite movies and we had a hard time choosing between Marylou, Kissin' Kate Barlow, or Anabel Lee. If she had been a boy we would have named her Theodore or 'Arm pit'.

She's named Hope 'cause this kind of hope is as vulnerable and as vital as our little calf.

Part 2, Hope Defined

2010-05-05T18:32:00.000-07:00

by Jeff Mathias

In our continuing exploration of our family's definition of Hope, here is Jeff's offering. Click on the title of the song to listen to the version we first fell in love with from the movie "Thelma and Louise". The lyrics are below. While you're enjoying the tune, please scroll through to see some of our photos we believe illustrate Hope.

House of Hope by Toni Childs

Children laugh

Children cry
They're the future of our time
Will they hold us to blame
For all the things we've turned away
I don't like what i see now
I don't like where we're going
I don't like it, no
You and i, we're getting older now
You and i, who will show them
If we don't show them how

I want to know is it true
Is there a house of hope for me and you
I want to know is it true
Is there a house of hope for me and you

Children laugh
Children cry
They're the ones who will survive
Will they know what we've sold
Nature's gift we've turned for gold
I don't like what i see now
In my life, what i see now
I don't like where we're going
I don't like it, no
You and i, we're getting older now
You and i, who will show them
If we don't show them how

In this house of hope
In this house of hope
In this house of hope

You and i, we're getting older now
You and i, who will show them if we
Don't show them how

Part 1, Hope Defined

2010-04-25T15:26:00.000-07:00

by Zoe Mathias

Hope: 1. a feeling that what is wanted will happen; desire accompanied by expectation 2. the thing that one has a hope for 3. a reason for hope 4. a person or thing on which one may base some hope 5.[Archaic]trust; reliance “to leap up in expectation” 1. to want and expect 2. to want very much -vi 1. to have hope for 2.[Archaic] to trust or rely – hope against hope, to continue having hope though it seems baseless.

Hope was the last thing to come out of Pandora's box, following disease, famine, murder, hate, and despair. Though hope may seem a weak opponent, for it is always getting beaten, and bruised, what could be braver?

Such a small, shivery being to stand up to these black monsters. But stand it does. When dreams wither and die and are blown away, hope crouches against the wind. A dogged little being, for no matter how many times it is trampled it gets up and stands again. A thing both loved and hated, for it always seems to be fighting. After love, loyalty, joy, and happiness have fallen hope remains. Hope to love and feel joy and happiness once more. A strong thing is hope.

Because when the day is done, hope is there. Never giving in.

WooHoo WooHoo!

2010-04-19T14:26:00.000-07:00

Yep, it's a double WooHoo Monday. Tax season is officially over! Most of my coworkers are in Disneyland for a few days celebrating with the annual Silver Creek trip to a land far, far away. It is the first time they've gone someplace like Disney - usually it's much more grown-up like Reno or Las Vegas. I don't know how much fun they're having but I'll bet it's a lot. Just listening to their passing comments "Are you packed? Me too!" kept a smile on my face during those last hectic moments. It's not everyone who can so enjoy life and I am truly blessed to get to work with a whole bunch of such souls.

Why didn't I go? Have you ever seen a dismembered Mama? My girls have never been to Disneyland and I was fairly certain of the reaction I'd get if I suggested they stay home and do chores while Jeff and I went to frolic with Mickey. Not a pretty sight.

Instead, I had an amazing weekend, three whole days actually, after working six days a week for the past three months. Zoe is running Track and competed at Eastern Oregon University, beating her earlier time by a tenth of a second. We tease that she would have improved more if she could just stop jumping backwards when the starter gun fires. Actually, we were on a deadline to make it to the library before it closed so she may have been going top speed after all.

The next day was all about Rae as she prepares her audition tape for Performing Arts Camp. Sheesh, can you say zero to sixty in two weeks? Her Spring call to the universe this year was for the opportunity to perform. Since the Equinox, she's co-starred in the MCT production of The Princess and the Pea, will perform with the High School Drama club at the end of April and with the local Cheer Dance studio in May. And if her starlet monologue of "The Ugly Step-Sister Speaks Out" goes well enough, she'll spend a whole week performing this Summer.

Jeff staked out the boundaries of the new garden spot for the greenhouses and the fruit and berry orchard, fenced off paddocks in the quickly growing pasture, and moved our little Jersey bull from the fertility pen to his pasture-in-waiting. We love, love, love being Farmers.

When Rae took the first fall from her new horse, I consoled her with this bit of hard-earned wisdom "After you've been bucked off a running horse, lived through it, and gotten back on - again and again - something changes inside of you. You just don't scare easily anymore." Rae was pretty doubtful at the time and assured me that she didn't really need to repeat the experience. But I look at my amazing family - on great days and in the middle of tax season, or harvest season, or right after they've been bucked off - and we just don't scare easily anymore. Life is big and beautiful and hideous and hard and luscious and tender all at once.

It's a double WooHoo Monday and I am so very lucky to be alive.

What Do You Want To Be When You Grow Up?

2010-02-22T12:18:00.000-08:00

The other day, a writer explorer I know wondered if only one passion was allowed per person - one grand, consuming, life-guiding passion - or if maybe, satisfaction could be found in immersing herself in many loves both big and small. I remembered immediately the rush of Truth when I had spontaneously began making a list of all the things I Am Not

1. A non-profit President, Founder, Board Member or employee
2. A full-time schoolteacher or caregiver for other people's children
3. Caretaker/Savior of anyone's soul other than my own
4. Time waster or baby-stepper
5. Workshop addict/Self-help junkie
6. Unfinished
7. A beginner, a newbie, a novice, an apprentice
8. Superficial
9. A waiting-to-retiree

Midway through this list, I decide it may be a good idea to make a record of what I indeed AM

1. Mom to Zoe and Rae
2. Woman, Partner to Jeff
3. Listener/Observer for the purpose of uncovering/distilling/maybe giving insight
4. Wild
5. Capable
6. A figure-out-er
7. Team member with high expectations of my self and my team
8. Born with a raging thirst and a hunger to be free
9. A believer in the unseen and almost known
10. The sense of touch
11. Over-sensitive
12. Honest
13. Fierce
14. Storyteller
15. Seeker of participation with the eternal

As I shared with Chris, the first list was forged with Fire and Heat and Brilliance. The second list seemed more of a Spring rain - light, refreshing, nourishing. The first was born of full-on life experiences, of crashing and burning, and trying again. The second reveals the priceless gems left glittering on the workshop table of my soul after all had been said and done and swept up. Both lists live within me everyday.

The gift of feeling in my bones and in my cells who and what I know myself to be is a GPS tool truly worth having.

2010-02-10T12:07:00.000-08:00

During my ten day treatment program at Schick Shadel Hospital, the obvious goal was to break down the addiction, to break loose a destructive behavior, to make "alcoholic" something I am not. Looking back on it now, something else I focused on during that ten days was just as crucial to where I find mySelf today.

One of the tools I took with me to work through why I drank too much was Carolyn Myss's phenomenal book "Sacred Contracts". It seems now that I couldn't let go of the drinking until I'd rebuilt the foundations of who I am. Or perhaps I couldn't get a grasp on who I am without letting go of the death grip I had on drinking. Books have always been my elders, my mentors. A quote from "Matilda" by Roald Dahl (movie version) sums this up perfectly:

"So Matilda's strong young mind continued to grow, nurtured by the voices of all those authors who had sent their books out into the world like ships onto the
sea. These books gave Matilda a hopeful and comforting message: You are not alone."

Books tell distinct, limited, coherent stories. Their presence in my life has enabled me to utilize what Carolyn Myss calls "symbolic sight", allowing me to pick out the structural plot, protagonist, and antagonist in the stories all around me. I've noticed especially in the last few years that my first reaction to the drama inherent to family and work is a fascination with the story elements more than an engagement with the drama itself. On every page of my own story are a hundred choices in what to say, how to act - ways to respond that absolutely affect the choices available to me on the next page of my story.

If I am only making choices based on who I am not, I can get stuck in a cycle of deconstruction. Generationally, you often see children rebelling against their parents' tightly held beliefs whether religious, political, social, or personal. Now though, that pendulum swing seems all amped up. We are a nation who voted in one president to bring dignity back to the oval office, then eight years later elected our next President because he promised Change and now just a year later, the majority party is losing elections to candidates offering an alternative to those 'unacceptable' changes.

Paradoxically, making choices based on who I want to be can be just such a destructive trap as well. In my last post, I shared what happened when I chose wrong action because I was willing to chase success at any cost. Pursuing a goal is not a bad thing. Dogmatic adherence to a predefined proof of that goal however negates the precious learning along the way. Whether you begin with what you want to be or what you want to be not, the end result of your efforts is unlikely to be what you had imagined at the beginning of your journey.

Maybe this is what all those self-help books refer to as Living in the Now. Making choices based on a good evaluation of what is offered on today's page of your story. It makes no sense to me to spend money as if you are wealthy when you have 42 cents to your name. On that day, money is not your wealth. But maybe strength of arm is a current asset and you can barter that wealth for food, return services, even more enhanced health, or fulfillment that comes from just helping someone who needs a strong hand.

This perspective on wealth and available choices though can only be had once you know who you are as well as who you are not. Don't tell me who you want to be. Tell me who you are today. Tell me a story of who you were yesterday so that I may catch a glimpse of your life's threads weaving together to create the choices you have before you today. If a thread is only a desire, take action today that will build your choices for tomorrow. John Michael Greer has posted a novel blog at starsreach.blogspot.com that I am completely enchanted by. His very first paragraph will show you why, and illustrate beautifully the art of weaving choices:

One wet day as we walked north toward Sisnaddi, old Plummer told me that
all stories are scraps of one story, one great and nameless tale that winds from
world’s beginning to world’s end and catches up everything worth telling on the
way. Everybody touches that tale one way or another, or so he said, if only by
watching smoke from a distant battle or lending an ear to some rumor in the
night. Other folk stray into the one story and then right back out of it again,
after carrying a message or a load of firewood on which the fate of kings and
dreams will presently depend. Now and then, though, someone no different from
these others stumbles into the deep places of the story, and gets swept up and
spun around like a leaf in a flood until finally the waters drown him or toss
him up gasping and alive on the bank.

It Won't Always Be This Way

2010-02-01T07:03:00.000-08:00

I'm writing this essay on the seven year anniversary of completing the alcohol treatment program at Schick Shadel Hospital . During this weekend each year, I take some time away to celebrate my life, to be still, to mark the things for which I'm grateful, to touch base with the foundation of my belief. This year, I'm also writing as the tax season begins its short slide into the urgency of single-focus effort right up until 5:00 pm on April 15th.

And this “new” circumstance has shed a whole different light on my experience with alcohol addiction. I put quotation marks around the adjective “new” because although I've never before worked as a licensed tax preparer, I have faced the urgency of single-focus effort before. In fact, the most harsh of such experiences precipitated my commitment to the Schick Shadel program.

In 2000, I was very happily staying at home, mothering my beautiful little girls, restoring a 100 year old farmhouse, diligently working through the advanced Institute for Children's Literature writing program, and making a warm welcome home for my hard-working man. Then one day, someone I considered a close friend started talking to me about a service that was missing from their climbing business, exploring whether I may be interested in building a company to fulfill that service. I do so love a challenge.

Within a few hectic months, I moved from attachment parenting to kissing my little ones good night after they were already asleep and kissing them goodbye before they woke up in the morning . Seventeen hours a day. Seven days a week. But, I told myself, it wouldn't last forever. Just six months and then I could back away. Just six months and I had promised so many people that I could make this business happen that I just couldn't fail. I had to do whatever it took. Three months in and our partner quit. I kept working. I had to succeed at the task. I went to work every day feeling like I was full of broken glass. But I was ready to do whatever it took. I started having a beer for breakfast. And so on. And so on.

We sold the set up and equipment the next Spring for a sweet little profit and I tried to go back to my life the way it had been. Beer for breakfast though wasn't something my body could get over.

And it wasn't just the physical, brain chemical addiction. When I was working from that single-focus crisis point, my foundation was fear. I think it's that way in any crisis whether we fear the loss of health, of a loved one, of our home, of financial security. Basically, I become motivated by the fear of failure - failure to keep my promise, keep my health, keep my security. “I'll do anything” becomes “I'll give anything”. By the time the task is achieved, and there's no more need for the insane effort and sacrifice, sometimes, there's nothing left of the life you had before you shifted into crisis mode. Worse, sometimes there's no self left but the one who already gave everything in the urgent single-focus effort of not failing to complete the task.

Huh --- a scene from the Tom Hanks movie “Cast Away” just flashed in my mind. At the very end of the dramatic story, he delivers the package to a remote ranch in Texas. Then he sits at the crossroads. Without direction. He had survived and, against truly impossible odds, returned to his old life. But it wasn't there for him anymore.

It can happen without alcohol, without addictions of any kind. It can happen anytime I get so focused on not failing the goal that I forget myself. When I take so many steps down the “I'll do whatever it takes” road that the only motivation I can remember for continuing the task is the fear of not completing it.

Maybe that's why I spend this weekend away every year. Away from all the tasks, all the goals, all the things that must be done for someone else. I fence off a time and space where I'm surrounded by what really matters to me. Where I touch base with mySelf. I breathe in. I breathe out. And I breathe in again.

This year, I'll be making cottonwood balm and several healing tinctures, planting basil, thyme, rosemary, and poppies to grow in my office, repairing my NordicTrack, setting up a sewing table and long delayed projects, feeling the sun (and snow and wind and rain and the big ol' moon) on my skin, and letting my heart fill up with my lovely big girls and my hard-working man.

I am so lucky to have them. I am so lucky to have my life.

Staying In Character

2010-01-25T07:00:00.000-08:00

I've long recognized that heroes are not always obvious. Quite often, the character upon whom the fate of the world rests gets called to the task right out of the blue. We are introduced to such characters in the normal guise of their everyday life as students, housewives, plumbers, journalists, waitresses. The storytellers take pains to show us that these characters are just like us with all the daily drama we've each known in our own lives. And then the moment happens – they are given a briefcase, a key, a locket, a map – usually by some mysterious, desperate, probably dying, stranger. We're off on an adventure that proves the “just a plumber” character has been training his whole life for exactly the right skills he'll need to achieve the quest. And as the final scene closes, we see the hero silhouetted against the edge of his triumph, gladly ready to go back to his life as just a plumber.

I'm not like that. I've known always that I was special. A superhero waiting patiently to be called up in my world's moment of great need. I've honed my skills as a farmer, storyteller, toymaker, teacher, and healer. It's easy to see how such ability would be exactly what was needed to save our modern world. I've stepped up to the plate as an activist, a community leader and spokesman, brainstorming strategy and offering detailed plans to implement worthy new paradigms.

As of yet though, no benevolent higher power has pointed their finger at me saying “You there, you are the one.” The call that did come through was the completely unexpected one offering me a position as an accountant. An accountant! Initially, I smiled politely and shook my head, “Thank you but no, I am not an accountant.” I had way bigger shoes to fill – feeding the world for heaven's sake, or better yet, teaching the world to feed itself. I had to stay ready, to keep my skills sharp and my reputation as a superhero-in-waiting advertised for the big call, my schedule clear for the quest.

And yet, the invitation to spend 40+ hours a week in an office, wearing make-up, surrounded by file cabinets, computers and computer peripherals, phones, and balance sheets offered something precious - community. A lasting spot in the ecosystem of our chosen home. Perhaps that's just it. Our home was choosing us back. It wasn't clothed in the costume I'd come to view as heroic, it wasn't even asking for the knowledge, skills and abilities that I had so determinedly acquired. The big finger was not pointing at my resume at all but right at me.

And so I said “Yes” and seriously set about becoming an accountant. There are still moments in every day when my full attention is captivated by the trembling drop of water ready to fall from the tip of a potted plant, by the glowing generosity of my co-worker's heart, by the sheer will of my client's commitment to move forward, to hold on, to be a student, housewife, plumber, waitress. In those moments I am filled with certainty that I have answered the call. I am in the middle of an epic hero's quest story.

I may not, in my finite human life-span, get to see clearly the essential task I'm to fulfill or even the goal of the quest. That can be acutely uncomfortable. We're all accustomed to stories that have well-defined beginnings, middles, and happily-ever-afters. However, when I am limited to the context of only a single scene, it's hard to know I'm playing my part effectively. I found myself thinking that to make peace with my role as an accountant, I had to get into the character, really understand the motivations, ferret out what gifts an accountant could offer the hungry world.

Wait a minute....Helloooo.... No matter where the plot is headed, I am the character. All the insights and values, skills, joys, and regrets that make up my life guide this particular characterization. No matter what scene or costume changes occur, the only way my participation in the story is authentic and believable is if I myself stay in character during every scene. While it seems foolishly obvious now, the truth didn't settle into my heart until I read this quote by Isobel Carmody in her fabulous book “Winter Door” describing how to navigate the city of Fork:

“It's not a matter of knowing the way,” the other girl said over her shoulder. “With Fork, one must know one's destination. Then you need only walk and the city will bring you there... You see, the city understands itself. If you do not know where you want to go, the city cannot fathom your desire. If you are confused, you will find Fork confusing.”

I am not seeking another destination – I'm lucky enough to have found just the right place. But I'm rather frightened of being so occupied with the drama of daily life that I miss the onramp for my hero's quest. I think though that if I remain the truest picture of my Self, then the universe will certainly know where to find me when the time comes to complete the task for which I was born. If I believe and behave true to character no matter what role the scene calls me to act out, I'll not miss the mark.

Polar Bear Plunge!

2010-01-21T12:47:00.000-08:00

by Zoe Mathias

We started a traditon, just a year ago, that on January 1st, we would jump in Wallowa Lake with the Polar Bear Club. Now, this is a national thing to do on New Years day, from Florida to Alaska. We are no where near the temperature of Florida in January though also not really as cold as Alaska. At least most years we are not. The year before we started, the water had been 40 degrees and the air was 14 degrees, so it had felt nice and warm in the water. This year the lake had frozen over two days before we were to jump in. Eye witnesses said it was almost thick enough to walk on.

So when we got the call at 9:00 New Years morning that the dive was still on and a guy was going up to chip a hole in the ice, we got ready for the worst. Got ready for the worst, but still jumped in the car to make it to the Lake in time! But as we drove around the bend, a totally thawed, blue lake greeted us though tell tale chunks of ice still floated in the water.

After standing in the snow for fifteen minutes, with sandals on might I add, we were ready to shed our ten layers of clothes and stampede into the water. Up to our waists in frigid water, we dunked our heads. Rae caught her hat just in time as she burst out of the water, having forgotten to take it off. She went in last year to offer me moral support, but didn't dunk. This year she promised herself that she would dunk. And she did!

We waded out of the water as fast as we could and on winged feet we flew to the car. We then piled as many heating devices on top of us as we could. And when we got home we had a nice helping of birthday cake.

Back in the Saddle and Packing a Tune

2010-01-15T06:34:00.000-08:00

It's been a long silence - not something I'm usually known for! Technology can be less accessible than we've all come to expect and sometimes, the extra effort just moves the joy of this expression to a lower priority. We've got lots of stories to tell, pictures to show and dreams to share. For today, here's a humble message. We offer it to you on a bed of gratitude, garnished with giggles and served with a heaping helping of fondness. In the words of the a great character, "Thank you for being my friend"

A Herd Of Many Sizes

2009-04-01T09:30:00.000-07:00

by Zoe Mathias

We have collected another member to join our mismatched family.
Gjynevieve is a three year old Jersey-Guernsey cross, her back comes to about four and a half feet. She is an eastern Washington girl, but I think she can be easily converted to a thick coated, cold weather pioneer.
Little Gjynni as she's been dubbed is due to calve at the beginning of May. This is her second calf, her first being a bull calf.
You can tell Gjynni's peach colored giant hide from the rest of the herd with ease.

There is the highly esteemed Lady Martha Washington. Her dark face and excellent mothering set her high above the stature of Jersey. She is not so pleased with Gjynni for she has taken Lady Martha's place as leader. Although she will a part of the family and a favorite for all time, Martha is leaving sometime this summer to go back to her permanent home.

Next comes Carnation, our red flecked, white, Jersey-British White cross. She is the sweetest cow you ever did meet, but she can be a pain in the butt at times. She and Gjynni seem to be getting along like old chums, despite the foot difference in height.

The resident cow husband is Quincy. The bull calf we acquired last summer is now seven months old, and a rambunctious trouble maker. He devotes his misspent adolescent youth tormenting his youngest wife, Zephyr, drinking as much milk as he can, fighting treacherous straw bales, and last but not least annoying tipping over my full wheel barrels.

Isn't he wonderful?

The above mentioned Zephyr is the all around surprise calf. Born four months before her due date, she's captured all of our hearts. We have finally Sherlock Holmed her probable father out of hiding. We now know, almost positively for sure, that she is a quarter Jersey, a quarter British white, and half Rotokawa, a New Zealand beef breed.

And last but far from least is Sierra, my red mustang. She is even less impressed with Gjynni than Martha. She has been promised another horse for almost a year, and what does she get? Cow after cow. "What kinda deal is that?" she says.
But for all that she wants another horse, she loves Zephyr and Quincy to pieces.
So we'll see who joins our herbivoric herd in May, we're hoping for a Suzanna but a Louie would be just as welcome.

Identity

2009-03-07T12:53:00.000-08:00

I have two quotes taped to my computer at work at an accounting firm. Are you surprised that I work at an accounting firm? Me too. It's so different from my "real" life that sometimes I can lose my footing. These words are my reminders.

"Since there is no government of which the concern or the discipline is primarily the health either of households or of the earth, since it is in the nature of any state to be concerned first of all with its own preservation and only second with the cost, the dependable, clear response to man's moral circumstance is not that of law, but that of conscience.

The highest moral behavior is not obedience to law, but obedience to the informed conscience even in spite of law." Wendell Berry

Escape

by D.H. Lawrence

When we get out of the glass bottles of our own ego,

and when we escape like squirrels from turning in the cages of our personality,

and get into the forest again,

we shall shiver with cold and fright

but things will happen to us

so that we don't know ourselves.

Cool, unlying life will rush in,

and passion will make our bodies taut with power,

we shall stamp our feet with new power

and old things will fall down,

we shall laugh, and institutions will curl up like burnt paper.

2009-03-04T19:00:00.001-08:00

How to build a HeART Kaleidoscope

Materials:

1 Glass Circular Tube
1 Glass Triangular Tube to fit snugly inside circular tube
Pictures of your Self
All the pieces of your Heart

Step One: Make sure you've chosen a triangular tube that fits well inside the circular tube. You want one that will hold solidly in place but not so tightly that it will stress the integrity of the circular tube.

Step Two: Slide the triangular tube into place inside the circular tube. Make sure the ends are flush with each other. Seal one end of the tubes so that the spaces between the triangular tube and and the circular are closed but the triangular tube remains open.

Step Three: Stand tubes upright upon the closed end.

Step Four: Loosely fill the spaces between the circular tube and the triangular tube with the pieces of your Heart: that shiny-bell memory of your very first kiss, the jagged edge black obsidian flake of rejection, the seashells and bright copper pennies and laughter, the dead flowers and clogged pipes and loss. Tip them all right in.

Step Five: Seal the second end as the first, leaving the triangular tube open.

Step Six: A magic trick may be called for here unless you know the science required to lessen the gravity in the sealed segments between the circular and triangular tubes. Your goal is to allow the pieces of your Heart to move freely and without being distinguished as "heavy", "light", or "broken". Just let them be. Let them interact with each other without regard to chronological order, preference or classification.

Step Seven: On the outside of the circular tube, using a soft touch with a clear adhesive, attach the pictures of your Self. Images that reflect how you see Who and What you are. Leave space at the edges, don't crowd one image with another but let there be room for each to stand alone.

Step Eight: Let light flow through the triangular tube. Whether it be flame, bulb, sun or moon, flood the inner tube with light. It will stream through all the pieces of your Heart, catching the colors and shapes, bending and refracting on its way out through the channels and valleys left between the pictures of your Self on the outside of the circular tube.

Step Nine: As often as possible, gather with other HeART Kaleidoscopes and watch the incredible patterns made on blank walls and in dark corners.

More kaleidoscope stuff: Brewster Kaleidoscope Society and here's a link to make your own kaleidoscope

Wishing you wild, colorful dreams, Lisa

OH WONDERFUL DAY!!!

2009-01-07T20:17:00.000-08:00

Zephyr Melissa Banana Borage!
by Zoe Mathias

Our Carnation girl had a little baby calfer! Unknown to us, she got bred by an anonymous bull sometime last spring, so she calved four months earlier then expected.

This morning as Dad went to turn on the car to take Mom to work,he saw a small white animal in with the horse and cows. It took a while to realize what it was. He ran in to the house saying 'Carnation had her calf!'. Oh my, so fast did we run to the barn!

When we got out there Zephyr was under Sierra trying to nurse, Sierra was calmly standing protectively over the little white calf. She threw such a fit when we tried to take Zephyr and get her nursing off of Carnation, we ended up putting Sierra in another pen.

Zephyr was pure white and so dry that she had to have been born the night before. Now, this is Carnation's first calf so we thought we might have to help. But she did just fine with her two expert midwives, Sierra and Martha. Who knows what Quincy thought of the whole deal.

So born in to this world January 7th, 2009, Zephyr, for the west wind, Melissa, for our friend's middle name whose birthday is tomorrow, Banana, cause it's so warm, Borage, because her mom and grandma are named after flowers.

Love Zoe, Rae, Jeff, Lisa, Sierra, Martha, Drake, Tiger, Quincy, Carnation, and last but not least Zephyr!
(I won't name all the chickens)

What is REAL Rules the World

2008-12-27T11:11:00.000-08:00

So you've got your pocketful of scratchy, sparkly, icy, joyful memories. Now what? There are bills to pay and dishes to be done and a global economic system crashing around our ears. Who cares what happened to a child decades ago when the real challenge lies in predicting the future well enough to survive and hopefully profit. What possible difference could it make that you can remember how the thick turf seemed to rise up, to gleefully meet each strike of your horse's hoof beat - that the light of the sun mixed with the stroke of the wind to create a golden drink you could feel sliding all the way down your throat.

Let me answer with a story. Will Smith's movie "Hancock" enlivens an incredible amount of symbolism and provocation. One of my favorite moments is when Justin Bateman's character asserts that Hancock is a Hero and that he'll never be happy until he makes peace with that truth. Hancock certainly already does the superhero crime-fighting thing but in such an incoherent, drunken way that he causes more harm than the original crime. He has super skills - phenomenal strength, the ability to fly, bullet-proof skin - but no context for his unusual abilities. Seventy years ago, he woke up in a hospital with no memory of who he was or how he had gotten there. He could do things, amazing things, but without the compass of why. So, he made up his own context. You see, nobody came to the hospital to look for him, to claim him. "What kind of bastard must I have been," he tells, "that nobody, nobody came looking for me?"

This context then became the real story, the scenery and plot through which his extraordinary gifts were to be expressed. He was unimportant, unworthy of love and care and worry. For all his unique power and urgency to help, the world was better off without him. The movie twists this experience into an exceptional story that I highly encourage you to watch for yourself.

Hancock's gifts were obvious. Super strength and bulletproof skin aren't easy to forget. Most of us, however, know our context but have lost track of our gifts. There are a bazillion books and self-help programs out there to unleash your hidden power, to find your true path and set you on your way to a successful career, marriage, body, etc. I think all these well-meaning plans are mistaken. It seems their primary goal is to squish all your lovely, full, round life into the square hole of cultural context.

Another story, true this time rather than scripted. I worked for awhile as an Administrative Assistant in a small private middle school. I shared office space with the Business Manager and Head of School and was privy to most internal mechanisations of the school. One day, I sat quietly while the Head met with a teacher, a student, and the fourteen year old's parents. I can still feel the helpless fury as I listened to the young man tell his side of the story with honest, struggling-for-maturity control. He had been wronged and everybody in that room knew it. After an agonizing pause, his father said, "Sometimes in this world you are right but it doesn't matter. You just have to suck it up."

That is a big, fat lie. And who was enforcing that lie? In this case it was the teacher who would be allowed to continue her cruel behavior unchecked and a Head of School who could maintain order but lose integrity. This is what happens in every single instance of human society. When there are too many students in the classroom to allow for individual expression and discovery, we always standardize. We have done this as an entire culture - the American Dream is standardized to mean the biggest paycheck, house, car, retirement account..... Standardized Achievement tests are designed for one thing only - to test the retention of what has been taught. There is no way possible for an authority to test what they didn't teach you. And so it becomes unimportant, disruptive, even dangerous. Your ability to reflect the context becomes the total measure of your achievement, the quality of your gift.

Don't confuse the context with your gift. Sometimes even when you recognize your gift, it remains merely a distraction unless the external context affirms its importance. I've done that too. Searching and searching for some proof that I was switched at birth, had some secret identity that would explain everything and all the crazy, recurring pieces would finally fit together in a coherent worthwhile story. But that doesn't work. Nine times out of ten, there are no extraordinary details that will change everything you believe about who you are. I was not born on another planet or hidden away by a Faery princess to keep safe until the time was right for my return to the throne. I'm just a girl with supersensitive skin and an overactive imagination.

These are my gifts. They make me question what I'm told - to look behind the words for the real story - to wonder why a father would advise his son to accept injustice. Context isn't concrete for me. It is a shifting plot line, a different chapter where a whole new character or setting can be explored. It isn't real. I am real. My skin tells me so.

Right now, our cultural context is going to hell in a handbasket. But you've had a week of Christmas - all the big and small sensory experiences that make you who you are. How did the cranberry sauce taste on your tongue? How did the sound of wrapping paper being ripped from a gift feel in you ears? How did that moment when you slipped from asleep to awake and realized that it was Christmas morning feel in your throat? Here are your clues to how you long to move through the world.

Search through them. I don't imagine they are all Disney-movie wonderful emotions. I don't care about the context - whether it was Aunt Ruby's famous cranberry sauce or that you were disappointed in the quality of the gift under the wrapping. I want to know what you felt. That was real. Give it a whole weekend of practice. Just notice the color of maple syrup on your tongue. The sound of a hot bath after the frigid trip to the barn or store. What does your skin ask for when you hear the alarm on Monday morning? Give it a whole weekend of being the real thing moving through the scenery of cultural context.

Where I Am Real

2008-12-21T22:57:00.000-08:00

Lest you should think Pollyanna lives here, I do read the news. And hear the news - local news, national news, global news on the TV and radio, on the phone with my mother, at work, in the checkout line, in Christmas cards for pete's sake. I hear the news until I think I will run mad, screaming that I must bathe, must soak in Listerine and floss between my ears 'til the news is scrubbed from my thoughts, scoured from my soul .....AAAAARGH!

Then I go milk the cow. And breathe. And flex. And breathe. Until finally I feel safe enough to open my ears again. Ahhh. The dulcet symphony of my daughters arguing over who washed dishes last. Back to normal.

Sometimes making sense of the world feels like wrestling a Hollywood-size boa constrictor. In trying to make the best decisions, from the clearest motivation and most honest evaluation, nothing seems to be a simple choice. And yet, ironically, once I am able to identify that true place in myself, everything becomes straightforward. Not easy, for sure, but solidly trustworthy. You see, I do not live in the real world. The Real World lives in me.

I am the star in my story, the anchor, the creek bed through which all of the events as they occur to me must flow. The real impact of the stock market's rise or fall is not the same for me as for someone else because it occurs within my set of house, home, income, family (etc.) circumstances. The exact same market conditions will look very different for someone living in a New York high rise than it does for a farmer in the middle of the boondocks. Same reality, different real world. Further, these same circumstances will look very different for an old, alone, ill farmer living in the middle of the boondocks than for a young family with a fine flock of chickens and a sweet old milk cow. And different yet again for the young family who hoped to work their way out of the boondocks to the totally awesome high rise in New York City from the couple who spent every last dime making the transition from city life to homestead.

Ultimately, the Real World must be found within each person, within the culture of each small family unit. This is why identifying your story is so critical, so urgent. Reality is pretty much a mess at the moment. If you are relying on some outside source to update you on the condition of your world, you will be tossed about mercilessly. I'd like to share with you my memory of being little. These are the memories that shape those million surface decisions every day. When all the adult posturing is over, this is who is making the calls. This is where I am real.

For Christmas this year, I hope you find the memories from when you lived in your Real World. I'll bet you were awesome. I'll bet you will be again.

GROWING UP WILD

Too small to be a valley, my own Wonderland was just a bend in the land where a cold river tumbled by blue and clear. The heavily timbered mountains towered over our little house. A few other houses kept us company but mostly, our neighbors were the elk and deer and cougar. There were no sirens, no trains, no busy crowds; just a calm, cool, damp quiet.

If a bird flying high above looked down, he would believe my world to be smooth and soft and very green. But truly close-up, as only a child can get, the textures were grand. I could see the beauty and strength of the trees even with my eyes closed. Enchanted, I would wrap my little girl arms around their solid trunks, laying my cheek against their furrowed skin.

The air forever smelled as if it were about to snow. Short springy grass worked valiantly to soak up the springtime warmth. And in the summer, tiny flowers burst forth to decorate the green carpet as a reward for the yummy sunshine.

Unless you were sweaty hot, the beautiful river was uninviting; pretty to watch but cold enough to make your teeth ache. Sometimes we played in a hot spring which was enclosed by rough wooden walls. Although it smelled like jumping into a bowl of rotten eggs, I learned a pretty mean dog-paddle in that warm cocoon.

Most days I spent outside. I would pull the crust from the soft white bread of my peanut butter sandwich, squish it into a delicious sticky ball, and set out exploring. Being the only kid around for miles, I was
the undisputed Queen of Wonderland. My favorite quest took me in search of the fuzzy caterpillar. Around boulders and under branches, over a little wooden bridge and through bushes as tall as my Dad, I would seek the wee prize. Their tiny bodies seemed so fragile in the great wilderness, their soft fur so luxurious. Carefully, I would fill the pockets of my warm coat with the precious orange and black creatures. Subjects for the Queen.

We saved Fourth of July sparklers until winter. Somehow, in the black, icy nights you could write your whole name in the air with a sparkler and it would stay for long moments. Diamonds and jewels and magic dust would appear when I flashed the light quickly over the snow. I remember seeing my breath and feeling my nose straightening slowly when I scrunched it up. But I don't remember being cold. My feet encased in cozy warm boots, I twirled and danced. I waved my bright wand and wished it could last forever. And of course, that I'd always be Queen.

Identifying Your Treasure

2008-12-20T23:46:00.000-08:00

On this Solstice night, I am turned to the most bedrock pieces of me - those things that make me who I am. I am 42 years old (EGAD!) and I can tell you true, it was not an easy thing to identify my personal foundations. At the threshold of child to woman, I felt the hands of my ancestors pushing me out the door - "Go, make a life for yourself. Go Become Someone." Not at all humbly, I obeyed. I raced out that door, looking back only to wave confidently, "Goodbye, Goodbye, you'll be so proud of me!" Neither I nor those who literally sold the farm to pay the price of my freedom truly saw the road ahead. We'd all swallowed the wicked vow.

Grandparents were certain they'd earned my reward through Great Depression, World Wars, mechanization and mass media. Their children had been given the 50's, the promise of social security, pensions, and the microwave oven. Parents never looked back, trusting the promise of ever increasing value of stocks and real estate, assured by the college degree that marked us children as Achievers. "Go" they said, "And go again. Keep climbing, don't look down. This is what we fought for. Give us something to brag about." And all of us, politically correct young men and liberated young women went out to claim our pre-packaged, instant gratification, money-back-guaranteed birthright.

Among this flock of lucky heirs, I unconsciously committed a high crime with serial frequency. I'd not left everything behind me after all. Like a hidden hereditary heart condition, the need for connection pulsed with increasing urgency. I longed for recognition in my peers' eyes - that deep knowing that comes from living in each other's backyards generation after generation. I didn't realize it was lost to me in this world of Achievers from all lands. So very many are refugees. Temporary. Without permanent relationship to people or land.

But I am lucky. I carry in my heart a bright, solid memory. I remember being loved, I remember loving, I remember being real with a story, a myth in my heart and solid, fuzzy, scratchy, icy, sparkly home all around me. It is the best place to start looking for your Treasure: What has endured all these long years of lessons and experience deep in your memory, in your affections?

What do you remember about being young, being small? Try to find a scent memory, a song memory, and a touch memory. How about a weather memory or a travel memory? Is one of your senses dominant in these snapshots? Can you expand the scene by reaching out with another sensation? Even if your memory seems to be of a negative experience, try to notice more about the details: Is there something or someone you are hoping will help you? Is there something you are wishing you had the power to achieve? What kind of food did you like or totally dislike, what were your favorite games, chores and hard work, regular clothes and special outfits, holidays and particular family traditions? Always try to reach past the Thing you remember to the sensations that linger around the memory.

Jeff puts this exercise bluntly, "I spent the second half of my life trying to forget what I'd learned in the first half of my life and now in the third half, I'm trying to find what's still right for me." There was a time for every one of us when we believed we could do anything, could be anything. Long before we accepted that while what we loved could be a hobby, certainly, we would need to support ourselves first, we believed in being happy. If you can remember those first loves, those first moments of "I'll never forget this," I promise you will find clues to a Treasure worth recovering.

Are You Scared Yet?

2008-12-12T20:54:00.000-08:00

I grew up with a Dad who knew how to make threats. This may not seem like an admirable talent at first glance but consider the following: when someone looks you dead in the eye, leans down just a little bit to fully focus your attention and says quietly, evenly, "Go back to bed or I will stomp a mud hole in your butt and then I'll stomp it dry" there is absolutely no question of going back to bed or not. You go. Quickly. And quietly.

I unfortunately did not receive this great genetic inheritance for intimidation. When trying to make an unarguable point with my children, I invariably end up shaking my fist in the air, muttering "You'd better do what I say or....or....or.....something bad will happen." I know, not very scary. Perhaps it is because I grew up with such a master that I scoff at the media headlines and government officials trying desperately to convince me of our dire situation. I can't help it - when I read the news, I see myself puffing up, searching for an effective threat in order to manipulate the behavior of two smart, strong-willed children. They know better.

The Application For Government Bailout below just cracks me up. Especially Section 2, Item 3. Hey, maybe they could create a new Office of Homeland Intimidation. My Dad would be first pick for Threat Czar.

2008-12-10T21:17:00.000-08:00

So, after posting my blog today, I surfed over to one of my favorite writers, Sharon Astyk at Casaubon's Book. Hey, I thought all warm and fuzzy, she wrote about the same thing as I did. By the time I got to end of the post, I was still all warm and fuzzy, but also touched and motivated and quite humble. Ms. Astyk's writing is real, and funny, and built on the kind of everyday practical details that let you know she walks her talk. For example, this line perfectly articulates the gift of crashing:

I’ve found what she has - that the practice of living in a world we didn’t expect, of shifting to a different worldview and dealing with crisis as a routine part of my life, has, I think helped me adapt.
Now don’t get me wrong - there’s a lot to be worried about in raising a kid with disabilities in a changing world. But I do think it is worth starting with the assets, the benefits and the gifts. I say this for several reasons. The first is that I think those of us who have special needs kids have already had a kind of boot camp in adapting to shifting realities. Unlike a parent who always knows what is coming next - first they crawled, then they walked, then they ran - we’ve gotten used to not knowing. Making a Future for the Disabled: Facing Hard Times With Special Needs Kids

So, without further ado, I encourage you to click on the link above and enjoy a fine writer and a great thinker.

Things Seem Bad Out There

2008-12-10T10:54:00.000-08:00

Things seem bad out there. The Bureau of Labor Statistics reports that

"Employment fell sharply (-533,000) in November, and the unemployment rate rose from 6.5 to 6.7 percent, the Bureau of Labor Statistics of the U.S. Department of Labor reported today. November's drop in payroll employment followed declines of 403,000 in September and 320,000 in October, as revised. Job losses were large and widespread across the major industry sectors in November.

Both the number of unemployed persons (10.3 million) and the unemployment rate (6.7 percent) continued to increase in November. Since the start of the recession in December 2007, as recently announced by the National Bureau of Economic Research, the number of unemployed persons increased by 2.7 million, and the unemployment rate rose by 1.7 percentage points.

Home prices are in a record decline, food banks are struggling to keep up with the demand as food prices continue to rise and household incomes fall, leading to a record number of Americans utilizing the Food Stamp program:

"Food stamps, the main U.S. antihunger program which helps the needy buy food, set a record in September as more than 31.5 million Americans used the program -- up 17 percent from a year ago, according to government data.
The number of people using food stamps in September surpassed the previous peak of 29.85 million seen in November 2005 when victims of hurricanes Katrina, Rita and Wilma received emergency benefits, said Jean Daniel of the USDA's Food and Nutrition Service." Reuters

For right now, my family and my neighbors are safe, warm, and fed. The trucks delivering fuel, food, and medicines still arrive on schedule. But what if they don't come? Well then, we have fertile land, clean water, stock, and seed, and know-how. You can't live in fear, especially when your most overwhelming Fear is "what if Out There comes here?".

It seems most of our greatest fears are variations on this theme: What if someone took my child from me? What if someone came into my home and took my cash, jewelry, art, tools, food? What if a virus crashes my computer? A disease robs me of my health? Another woman takes my man? Another company takes my market niche? What if someone truly evil takes my child's future? What if, though I give my absolute best effort, I still lose everything? If what we fear is the loss of that which we love most, that which is most essential to our well-being, certainly we must ensure that treasure is safe. But before we even begin discussing necessary security measures, we have to identify the Treasure.

In Lloyd Alexander's epic series "The Prydain Chronicles", humanity has a final chance to rescue what the evil king had locked away from us. Among the glittering mounds of jewels and precious metals were two treasures that had been missed above all else. One was knowledge of the Crafts - music, blacksmithing, weaving, pottery. The other was a collection of wondrous tools that produced all by themselves, gifting us with exceptional finished products without any additional human effort. When the last chapter of the Prydain Chronicles was published in 1968, Lloyd Alexander had decided; the knowledge could be retrieved, should be saved.

"Do you know what you have found?" he whispered. "Here are the secrets of forging and tempering metals, of shaping and firing pottery, of planting and cultivating. This is what Arawn stole long ago and kept from the race of men. This knowledge is itself a priceless treasure."

And what of the wondrous tools? What did the acclaimed author and observer of men decide about their worth?

"The flames of Annuvin destroyed the enchanted tools that labored of themselves and would have given carefree idleness. These [secrets] are far worthier, for their use needs skill, and strength of hand and mind."

Most of why I worry about and for those Out There is that so many places may be caught with complete dependence on those wondrous enchanted tools for the manufacture and delivery of the food, fuel, and medicines central to modern life. Things are different here. Skill, and strength of hand and mind have a way of enduring in a place where carefree idleness remains always slightly out-of-reach.

I've lived in rural or wild places my entire life. We are more exposed to the harshness of weather, to the whims of government intervention, and access to the global anything. Almost everyone I know has Crashed atleast once. It isn't the reality of "after the Fall" that feels so futile but how far you are, yet again, from the radiance of the American Dream. But when you learn that crashing doesn't always mean dying, that it more often entails the painful process of picking up the shattered pieces and starting over, something shifts inside you. You begin to unchain yourself from the addiction to the myths told Out There.

There is way more Reality in these wild places - it is in your story and your neighbor's and your brother's and your in-law's. Those pretty fairy tales about getting into a good school, getting a good job, and retiring early just don't seem to wrap so tightly around what we know to be possible. Falling doesn't mean you are bad and deserve to be hurt. It means someone left a skate in the path, or shoved you from behind, or maybe you are just a little clumsy. Falling isn't a judgment but a rhythm of life. It happens. And then you get up again.

Instead of exporting our precious natural resources - water, timber, and topsoil - I think it is high time we sent our stories Out There. It is right that all people should have a new dream, one that calls to our minds and hands and skill, not our idleness.

John Henry Comes a'Calling

2008-11-21T08:40:00.000-08:00

The Legend of John Henry is one of my very favorite Tall Tales. During my 3:00 a.m. thinking loops last night, Mr. Henry strode right in and and sat me down for a talk. Or got me up for a journey - these things are hard to define. Before I tell you my tale though, you should know a little bit about this American Hero.

"Now John Henry was a mighty man, yes sir. He was born a slave in the 1840's but was freed after the war. He went to work as a steel-driver for the Chesapeake & Ohio Railroad, don't ya know. And John Henry was the strongest, the most powerful man working those rails.

John Henry, he would spend his days drilling holes by hitting thick steel spikes into rocks with his faithful shaker crouching close to the hole, turning the drill after each mighty blow. There was no one who could match him, though many tried.

Well, the new railroad was moving along right quick, thanks in no little part to the mighty John Henry. But looming right smack in its path was a mighty enemy - the Big Bend Mountain. Now the big bosses at the C&O Railroad decided that they couldn't go around the mile and a quarter thick mountain. No sir, the men of the C&O were going to go through it - drilling right into the heart of the mountain.

A thousand men would lose their lives before the great enemy was conquered. It took three long years, and before it was done the ground outside the mountain was filled with makeshift, sandy graves. The new tunnels were filled with smoke and dust. Ya couldn't see no-how and could hardly breathe. But John Henry, he worked tirelessly, drilling with a 14-pound hammer, and going 10 to 12 feet in one workday. No one else could match him."

You can imagine my surprise when the mighty man himself sat down beside me, put his big hand gently on my shoulder and said, "Let's talk". Okie Dokie. We came to the point very quickly, standing there beside those thousand graves. A thousand lives, a thousand dreams, and the lives and dreams of all those who loved and were left behind by those workers. What a waste.

And for what gain? To get to the other side of the mountain, of course. I couldn't help but think of the giant mountain that lies smack in the path of America now as it was the source of my insomnia to begin with. What was on the other side of this crisis, this breaking down of what has always worked? If we could only see what was on the other side of the mountain, we'd know what action to take on this side. After all, if there is nothing but desolation and deprivation there, why then, let's just stay over here and make the best of it. Repair the status quo and all that.

But that doesn't seem to be our cultural bent. Our Declaration of Independence claims our birthright: life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. The American Dream is about progress, not happiness. We have to get to the other side of the mountain at all costs.

I wondered if we couldn't just travel the extra distance around the mountain instead of killing ourselves bashing through solid rock. Mr. Henry grinned big and bright and set off at a pace I could hardly match. I concentrated so hard on keeping up with him, I didn't pay attention to the landscape. Before long, I realized that I had lost my perspective. Where the heck was the other side of the mountain? All I knew for sure was that I was indeed going around the mountain. My heart sunk when we arrived back at the sad graves.

There hadn't been anything different on any side of the mountain except perhaps fewer dead people. There were just more mountains, and trees, and glorious towering rocks, and sweet babbling streams, and the soft murmur of life moving about its own business. But here I was, back at the hole in the rock, watching the crowd of head-smackers growing larger and more desperate to get through to the other side by the shortest route possible.

John Henry and I backed quietly away. We sat there on a rock awhile and let the fading moonlight wash over us. He never did ask if I wanted to go back to the other side of the mountain or even to the top of the mountain for a better look at what lay ahead. Mr. Henry just waited until the sounds of panic and thrashing about faded from my ears, letting me hear the stream and the soft rustling of forest life again. Then he asked to see what was in my pack. I must have looked surprised because a laugh rumbled deep in his chest. "I know you'll be heading back around that mountain. That old American Dream is bigger than both of us for sure."

So we dug through my pack: Right on top was the photo of my beautiful family, grinning and waving to me like the pictures in Harry Potter's world. I couldn't help notice they were suited up for a grand adventure. There were tools in the pack that I've picked up over the last few years: tools for healing and living comfortably in the natural world and nourishing each element of my space. I found a few souvenirs of other trips, trinkets of sad stories and happy times that have made me ready. And we found a whole lot of extra room, empty pockets that seemed to accuse me of glaring negligence.

"Well, you'd best get going." He stood and dusted off his britches and stretched his long muscles a bit. What! Didn't he see the empty pockets, the missing pieces, the obvious lack of preparation for what was on the other side? Mr. Henry just rumbled again and gave me a one-armed hug that nearly squashed all the air from my lungs.

"What is on the other side?" When I just stood there with my thinking loops a-whirling, he smiled and tapped me on the forehead. "It's just life. It's just the living. Don't go dying just to figure out what's on the other side of life."

Well, there you go. Now you've heard the tale exactly as it happened. On this bright, cold morning, it all seems a little like a dream. But I tell you what, if you are still awake at 3:00 am, with the evening news anchors droning their annoying muzak, and you just laying there wondering what in the heck you're going to do, get out your pack. Get out your pack and look through it. The American Dream is about the freedom to live, to be happy. What you've put in your pack all these years has less to do with getting there than it does about being here.

Fear and Anger Suit Up For the Game

2008-11-19T10:41:00.000-08:00

So this week, Jeff and I were presented with a great opportunity. If you've known me long, you'll be groaning about now. All my life, my strongest desire has been to be a true part of a dynamic, effective, hard-working, happy team. Many people play out this same yearning by joining high school team sports, 4H or chess clubs, bible study and book clubs, professional associations, business partnerships, sororities and fraternities, even gangs. I have had some lovely memorable experiences but for the most part, my core need to be part of something glorious hasn't worked out so well. I have a pattern of going outwards, going for the dream, crashing, then turning inwards to slowly recover from the loss of potential bliss.

My friend Kara wrote a poignant note about this sort of rhythm: "I remembered that it isn't so much a circle as it is a spiral staircase. I come back 'round again and again to the same issues, but I'm usually up higher or down lower, the perspective is always a little different." I know this - you never step in the same stream twice. Each time I, or we as a family, step into a grand idea, we are a little more cautious, a little more aware.

I do know this. Intellectually. But emotionally and physically, when we were offered to step into the exact dream-come-true that we've imagined for so long, I headed straight for the tub of chocolate covered mints. I was edgy and irritable and couldn't sleep. Actually, I did sleep but had the most annoying old nightmares. Places and people and issues that I've long since analyzed to mush. Every single one of the worn-out fears begin or end with my total lack of understanding of why the terrible thing had happened and a complete inability to change the painful outcome. Intellectually, I knew this was ridiculous but couldn't seem to stop the reaction loop.

A very smart friend told me not to go to bed 'like normal'. Stay up late. Simple as that. And just like she had an angel accomplice, a new book dropped into my lap for the dark quiet hours. Thomas Cowan's book The Fourfold Path to Healing has much of the wisdom and practical information that I've come to build my life around during the last several years. Statements like: "...the quality of our food determines in large part the quality of our lives. And the quality of what we eat is determined by every step that goes into production and processing - the feeding of the animals, care of the soil, preservation, storage and even cooking methods" wrapped me up in their familiarity, letting me know that I was in the presence of a kindred spirit.

So when I got to the chapter on weight loss, I certainly did not expect revolutionary ideas. My defensive posture was totally relaxed when this passage snuck right in:

"It is ironic but true that the person who is overweight often has a very constricted personal space. When we learn to create an enlivened personal space, then the need to create a buffer of excessive fat between ourselves and the world becomes less...According to one popular book on the psychology of various diseases, overweight is an expression of oversensitivity, fear and anger, all of which result in a lack of ability to call on others for help."

Boy, does that seem right! I think it would be fair to extrapolate and say that many addictive, seemingly unconscious behaviors fit this same shielding reaction - alcohol, drugs, tv, sex, even silence. My pattern of hope and effort resulting in fear and anger with no chance of return to the "before the terrible thing happened" bliss had been triggered. My Automatic Eject Button had been pushed and my escape pod was fully stocked with fat-forming sugar shields.

We are definitely going for the wonderful opportunity. There was really never any doubt that we would. However, this time, fear and anger aren't hidden in the baggage compartment. I am scared - this project is what I've wanted my whole life, what I want to do for the rest of my life, and I'm terrified that it won't work. Perhaps the thing I fear most is not failure but anger. When bad things happen, it is human nature to lay blame, to get mad, to let the flame of anger burn away the disappointment and hurt. The central relationship this time, the newly forged team, is too precious to lose.

I can't say for sure what will happen. I can only trust myself and the wisdom I've earned by stepping in this stream so many times I've got webbed toes. This quote from The Fourfold Path to Healing finally called the meeting in my mind to order. Not one of the bad experiences, worst fears, or old wounds has to be dismissed, they'll all get to vote at the quarterly meetings until they finally feel their work is done. Thank you Joanie and Mr. Cowan.

"The word 'health' comes from the word 'whole.' In this holistic view, we can experience illness as an opportunity to generate spaces for transformation, create supportive rhythms and move towards balance. Symptoms of illness, then, are not enemies but friendly movements that guide us again towards wholeness. Constantly ignoring or, worse, suppressing the symptoms is like being lost and closing your eyes to warning signals and signposts. Creating spaces for 'wholing' to take place is an important step in allowing the processes of building up and tearing down to do their work. All these processes are spacial processes that require forms and rhythms for healing to occur. Healing involves re-balancing that which takes place in the spaces between formation and annihilation.

How to Be a Giant, Part One

2008-11-14T08:36:00.000-08:00

It has taken me quite awhile to coherently articulate my reaction to Barack Obama being elected the 44th President of the United States. I am 100% cynical when it comes to our political process and those who rise to the top of that process. I would have enthusiastically voted for Ron Paul but couldn't bring myself to vote for either of the two representatives of the established political parties. I am sick of "politics as usual" and heard nothing new in either McCain's or Obama's platforms. However, I was fascinated by the play of story on election day and made sure my homeschooled lovelies watched the election coverage with me. This was part of the fabric of their childhood story after all.

And then, something happened. And for days afterward, the only clear sentence in the swirl of my reaction to the election was, "Something just happened."

As she so often does, my friend Kara over at MotherHenna began laying straight the fibers of my reaction. Kara walked me through her own story - and in doing so, I began to see that I, and we as a nation, had just walked through a gateway of Before and After.

In our Declaration of Independence, within the most often quoted passage in fact, lay our first institutional lie: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness." Indeed, further on in the same document, we get a hint that the Founding Fathers did not really mean ALL men as Jefferson cites the King's crimes including: "He has excited domestic insurrections amongst us, and has endeavored to bring on the inhabitants of our frontiers, the merciless Indian Savages, whose known rule of warfare is an undistinguished destruction of all ages, sexes, and conditions." The dividing up of "Us" and "Them" was truly begun.

I was born in 1966. I have not seen the timespan of changes illustrated by President Elect Obama in his acceptance speech. I was born after the Fifteenth Amendment gave men of any color the right to vote. I was born after the Nineteenth Amendment gave women the right to vote. It wasn't until our nation walked through the Before/After gate of electing the very first non-white man as our President that the crashing effect of those institutional lies hit me. It wasn't enough that individual lives, personal stories across time and space had overcome that distinction of "for Us but not for Them" created and affirmed with the very document that declared our national commitment to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Our nation's birth announcement was just pretty words - like the studio portrait of a happy family that hides heinous sins of abuse and pain.

Kara's post keeps me walking though. Our Founding Fathers were individuals. All had their own personal stories of abuse and liberty. What they signed together as a group gave birth to a single being, the United State of America, made up of individuals all with their own personal stories. The Fifteenth Amendment makes no mention of Frederick Douglass nor does the Nineteenth Amendment mention Lucretia Mott. But without the unwavering personal stories of these Giants, the national lies may have remained even longer uncorrected.

In speaking about the privileges of her own life, Kara states:

"Now let me explain something. I was not born when the stage version of HAIR hit the scene. I was 8 years old when the film was released. My mom was not a hippy, but a single mother working as a Head Start teacher trying to make the ends meet. This phenomenon was not on my radar within the context of its own time.

It was not until the late 1980's, when as a college student at Carnegie Mellon University, I saw this film for the first time, screened for our critical theory class. This was not my reality. Rather, this was the myth of Giants. Yet, somehow the reality I had created around myself was due to the work of these mythic beings. My cultural reality, the context of my life was somehow in play because of the things these Giants did to fight for freedom."

It was the personal footsteps of all the Giants, both named and unrecognized who kept putting one foot in front of the other, living life according to what they knew to be most true that so has overwhelmed me in the last several days. As the cameras panned the huge, peaceful crowd in that Chicago park, I saw in those individual faces all the ancestors who had made this day possible. The gate of change was held open by them. And millions of individual Americans finally undid the Founding Fathers' institutional lie of "all men".

Now we are on the "After" side of the gate. Certainly I do not believe that the personal stories of all Americans have miraculously shifted to the possession of life, liberty, and happiness. I was not being casual when I stated that I was 100% cynical of the political process. I am however, 100% idealistic about the power of personal stories. I believe that we have finished a monumental task. Now we begin another. As Kara says so perfectly, "There is no magic bullet. Life as a human being doesn't get done or finish. We die. Our work becomes the Myth of Giants for those left living. But the re-creation of reality, the constant revision of life itself, this goes on, ceaselessly. Whatever "happy ending" we all though we were racing toward since the 50's, 60's, 70's, 80's, well, there is no ending. There is only beginning."

Another favorite blog writer, Sharon Astyk, sharpens this point:

"The man we have made President may or may not rise to the difficult circumstances he faces. I hope and pray he does. And whether he does in part depends on us. If we make it necessary, if we become great, well, perhaps he will follow. Or perhaps it won’t matter that much if he doesn’t.
"We are told over and over again that the American people will not sacrifice, that they are lazy, they lack courage, they are not the equals of the people who came before us and gave us pieces of a history worth believing in. I do not know what kind of president we have, but I know, if I know any thing in the world that that last is a slander, a lie.
Each of us has the capacity to become greater than we are at present, to invoke the power of past generations, and past acts of heroism, and become what we need to be - the people who will preserve an America worth loving. So far, most people still don’t quite realize what is needed, but I have faith that if we choose, we who have coasted on cheap energy and plenty of wealth will find in ourselves that we are not so very far removed from our past, and that we are tied in the soils and by our courage to a future worth having. I have hope that we can create an America and an American people so deeply worth loving that our current and future leaders are shaped and transformed and burnished in greatness, as we transform and burnish ourselves."

I offer one more quote from the man whose personal story will indeed be noted in the history books:

"And to all those who have wondered if America's beacon still burns as bright --tonight we proved once more that the true strength of our nation comes not from the might of our arms or the scale of our wealth, but from the enduring power of our ideals: democracy, liberty, opportunity, and unyielding hope.

For that is the true genius of America -- that America can change. Our union can be perfected. And what we have already achieved gives us hope for what we can and must achieve tomorrow."

I am a Giant. My husband is a Tall Tale. Our children's lives are Mythic. Each one of us are not only descendants of those with unimaginable tales of courage, pain, and triumph. We will be the Ancestors. And this is the most important job title of all. What reality, what American Dream will we craft for our children's children?

Dress-Up Therapy

2008-10-29T12:33:00.000-07:00

In my life, I have been a bad judge of character. When I meet someone, I'm certain they are good, they are honest, making their way in the world in the most thoughtful, honorable way they can. Why indeed would you intentionally live your life any other way? I don't know exactly how she got there, but PollyAnna is at the controls.

My way of learning about the world was to lead with my whole heart, to put the squishy sentimental thing right out there on its own and see what would happen. Sort of a Knight in Shining Armour complex I guess - put myself as Distressed Damsel #1 in front of a speeding train to find out if I was smart enough, strong enough to save me from doom. As is easily predicted, I've had my heart squashed several times.

And I think I've finally gotten the message - my heart loves, that is what it was put in my breast for - to feel, to communicate with others on a sympathetic and empathetic level. It is not for seeing or hearing or thinking or analyzing. It should stay tucked away until I've atleast taken some precautions to make sure the coast is clear. If I am to to choose and hold a partnership with the Logue Mathias family homestead for all the generations to come, I need to be able to employ the right tool for the job. My heart is the long-term liaison, not the advance scout. Back behind a breastplate it goes. Actually, I think I'll make that a full kevlar vest as I'll not tolerate any more knives in the back either. Piece #1 of my Halloween costume. (Though I totally wish it were so, this is not a picture of my breastplate but a lovely example of the offerings at www.schmitthenner.com)

In my life, I have been an alcoholic. I used to believe it was a disease that I had contracted in college but I know it was really a tool I purposely used to navigate in a world where I did not belong. I used the terrible medicine to confuse my senses, to blunt the sharp edge of truth so I could walk across where I shouldn't oughta be. Six years ago, Schick Shadel Hospital helped me back from the railroad tracks. I've learned to untie myself before being totally run over and lately, I've been able to steer clear of those dangerous rope salesmen altogether.

If my heart is going to stay disengaged for awhile, I absolutely must rely on other tools for gathering and evaluating information about my world and those who would come into it. To be able to clearly hear hidden agendas. To see all the fine print rather than just a rosy glow. To scent the smoke before I walk into the fire. I would feel right about offering myself as a partner with such skills. Pieces #2, #3, and #4 of my Halloween costume.

When I was a teenager, I treasured my subscription to Seventeen magazine. I would pour over the glossy pages everyday for thirty-one days until the next one arrived. Each page, each day, each month built to the single delicious ad tucked in the back: a Finishing School For Girls. I just knew the six P's of comportment (Persona, Packaging, Positioning, Promotion, and Passion) would grant me entry into the glorious, glossy Seventeen world. Alas, I never made it there.

Near the end of The Fasting Path's preparatory exercises, I was dropped headfirst back into that world with questions about my body image:

"Let yourself sit and get comfortable. Then imagine, standing in front of you, the ugliest part of your body. How do you feel seeing this part of you? Look carefully at this part of you; what messages do you tell it every day? Is there something that this part of you wants to tell you? Is there something it wants from you? How do you feel about what it wants and says to you?"

Well, shit howdy. Right there in the middle of transcribing the questions to my journal, I realized I didn't think any part of me was ugly, or fat, or diseased in any way. About fifteen pounds overweight, yes. The same fifteen extra pounds, sometimes a bit more, sometimes a bit less, that I've carried since my youngest daughter was born. But the truth is, I'm done. I don't have any more of the epidemically common body issues we women who grew up in the 80's were infected with. I've still got pounds to lose, but no issues to process.

The same applies to unwarranted trust and alcoholism. I've already done the work necessary to root out and correct emotional and behavioral imbalances. I'm not recovering, or healing, or finding myself, or uncovering any repressed wounds or unrealized potential. I'm 42 years old and finally who I've always wanted to be. Not perfect. But finished.

I'm certain there was never a glossy, glorious invitation to attend the School of Hard Knocks but I'm going to give myself a diploma anyway. Piece #5 of my Halloween costume.

2008-10-24T16:44:00.000-07:00

What a shift in thinking this Halloween Costume challenge has become. Generally, you just pick what you want to "be", put together the outfit, maybe some facepaint and special jewelry and Voila! , you are a gypsy, queen, bum, cheerleader, cheetarina (cheetah ballerina) or even a witch. But to try to draw what you most desire to you, well then, you have to get into the very essence of that thing itself. To discover what it most desires.

Rae's wish for an Akbash puppy became heartbreakingly appropriate for this assignment. She has been helping to care for a litter of eleven puppies for the last couple of months. On the days that Jeff works at the small dairy, Rae goes with him, spending hours cuddling, romping, feeding, communing with these amazing animals. Just a few days before they were old enough to leave their mama, the pups contracted a very fast, very deadly illness. Seven of the eleven puppies died, including Tongka the runt puppy Rae had named before she even saw his precious face. For the first time in her life, the abstract concept of crossing over is brutally real.

I overheard her talking with Zoe about "recreation ". My mama heart jolted when Zoe corrected her term, "Do you mean reincarnation?" For the last week, we have explored death, heaven, spirit, reincarnation, redemption, God, religion and atheism. Rae has gone from calling Tongka back exactly as she knew him to trying to find the essential spirit of the pup that she cherished most - what he needed to feel safe, what he would have loved to do with her, what would invite him to come back into her life. I do believe the pain of death is for those who are left behind. This assignment gave Rae the chance to stop thinking about the hurt of being left behind and explore the exquisite choice of being born.

This is how Rae began exploring the spirit she wants to attract to herself in this shifty time:

"Akbash dogs need work, herding, protecting, and to help others. Akbash dogs need love no matter what age. They need at least 5 acres to run on. They are loving, and independent, as well as loyal to their owner. They are attracted to "Puppy Wuppy Wuppy Wooo!" They love to chew on things, and that's a fact! If and when I get a pup I will train him for search and rescue. If I ever get lost I want to be found, and I want a friend."

Zoe had more difficulty choosing what she wanted to draw to herself. When I asked what her costume might be, she replied "Myself. I will go as 'content'". Gotta tell you, this soothed quite a few fears, atleast for the day. As mom to a young teenager, I keep looking for those neuroses all the parenting books tell me I'll have to be vigilant for, to nip in the bud, early intervention and all that. "Content" was a nice thing to hear. It didn't however get her out of the homeschool assignment! As we explored what skills, talents, landscapes, people, or events she would like to experience, we kept coming back to animals. Seeing how our place is already home to a dog, cat, 22 chickens, a horse, a cow, and a bull calf, I wasn't sure I was ready for her to be calling in more animals just yet.

A barn though, now that would be a blessing. We have rehabilitated the shed on our rental property as best as we can but it definitely lacks spirit. It just plain feels temporary. Zoe spent some time reaching into the essence of Barn and came up with this:

"A barn is built to shelter, to keep warm those who seek it. A barn wants to smell of hay and animals. To sound like chickens clucking, the soft low of a cow to her calf. A barn wants to last centuries, to house ones who need protection. To softly creak and groan in the wind. A barn wants to be lit with yellow sunlight, or cozy lantern shadows. When the night turns cold and frosty, and you can see your breath, a barn will shelter you from the cold, will capture your heat, but will let you walk across the threshhold at your will. A barn wants to be filled with life. And I want to pour life in to it. To fill it with laughter and hay, and red bows."

As for designing a physical costume to attract the spirit of what you most want, I've found that to be more complex than I had originally thought. For example, I desire to draw to myself the Logue Mathias Forever Home. I've mentioned that it isn't just any piece of property but the one I believe is out there just for us, ensouled with a spirit that will be our true partner for generations to come. I will know it is ours because I will not have to repair the bathroom. I kid you not, we've had to repair, rehab, or completely rebuild the last four bathrooms - in one house, we had to do two bathrooms. So, I'm asking our land to deal with its pipes before it becomes ours by dealing with my pipes before Halloween. For the next week, I am working with Steven Harrod Buhner's "The Fasting Path" to clear out old business and enable a clean slate for vital living. Good dreaming!

Living Tradition

2008-10-20T21:40:00.000-07:00

Our family loves everything about the Halloween season. Learning that our dear friends do not celebrate the holiday made me take a closer look at why and how we tend to honor this time of year.

In the ancient Western world, the Celtic calendar was divided into the light half of the year, May 1st to October 31st, and the dark half of the year, November 1st to April 31st. Mind you, these dates are not exact as most of the old "holidays" were based on seasonal transitions and moon cycles rather than specific, rigid dates on a paper timekeeper. Further, the traditional activities absolutely followed real life seasonal tasks - harvest, preserving of the harvest, breeding and birthing of livestock, planting, and planning. Halloween falls at the beginning of a long season where most food plants go into dormancy in the Northern hemisphere. What you've managed to ripen and preserve is all your family can hope to get for several months.

Such was the reality of life before cheap energy and multinational corporations allowed us to expect tomatoes and bananas in January. This was the primary reason our family began consciously celebrating Halloween as a sacred season rather than just a candy bonanza. When we shifted our grocery shopping from big chain stores to local providers and our own garden, we became intimately aware of the Celtic halves of the year.

This is certainly not to imply that we find Halloween to be the first night of six months of deprivation and misery. Paradoxically, it is my undisputed favorite time of year, the time when I most feel a burgeoning hope. I love the rainbow of canned beets, beans, jellies, and sauces. My eyes feel so good traveling over the green, orange, brown, red, and tan of Winter squash - colors and shapes that words cannot adequately describe. Potatoes, onions, garlic, apples, beets, and rutabagas provide the base of all our winter meals. They mimic the glorious variation of our Autumn landscape before Winter snows disguise all the edges and gullies in a soft white blanket. The cold air seems to sharpen each smell until you can almost navigate from one single scent to the next. Variations in temperature are like the stroke of different hands against my cheek. To me, these are promises of long Winter nights spent reading and sewing and talking and laughing.

The tradition of dressing up in costumes for Halloween grew from the belief that during this shifting season, the veil between what is living and what has died is very thin. We are just starting to realize that the garden does not need tending, that everything that can be harvested has been, and nothing new will grow. It is the vulnerable time between the abundance of life and the composting of death. Those things that have died are still finding their way to the next stage. Halloween, or the older name Samhain, celebrants disguised themselves so that those dead spirits couldn't find them.

Some texts say they disguised themselves so that "evil" spirits couldn't find them. I guess I have a particular idea of evil - that it is anything that is supremely out-of-place. Sins are actions that, under other circumstances, have different connotations. Adultery = Sex with a culturally inappropriate partner in a culture that views marriage as the union of one man and one woman. Actually, there are a whole lot of other "sins" that are the act of intercourse with inappropriate partners but the act of intercourse in itself is considered sacred, that which ensures the continuation of life. One of the hardest things about being human is trying to pin down, in black and white, what is evil. There always seem to be exceptions to the rule. During this time of year, all spirits are transitioning. Essences only become good or evil through our human expression of them.

This review has prompted me to shift our Halloween costume tradition a bit. What if rather than hiding from the spirits we don't want to find us, we dress to invite the spirit we do want to welcome into our life? One year, Zoe dressed as Autumn and Rae dressed as The Little Teapot, short and stout. In the ancient Samhain context, we were saying, "Go away evil spirits, there is nothing to see here but some fallen leaves and an old kitchen kettle." How would you dress, advertise really, so the spirit of a beautiful painting would find you, to fill your imagination with such inspiration that you spent the entire Winter season pouring forth its expression? What do you most want to draw to yourself?

I'm going to have to work with this one a bit. I want terribly to live on our own land, to work with it and pass something full and mature and sustainable to my children and their children. If I just wanted land, I suppose I could dress as a real estate developer or property manager. But what I want is to be a steward. I want the land to grow and flourish and find a stable, self-regenerating expression under my care. I suppose this makes me servant of both land and my descendants. But I am no martyr. I love to be joyful, to taste, feel, and move in ways that are sensually pleasurable. And truth be told, I've a good streak of lazy - I could spend hours laying on a grassy hillside, letting the sun warm my body and the plants all around me until I can barely tell what is me and what is hillside.

I don't want just any land. We've owned and leased property before that I'm certain needed me to help heal itself. I was glad to do that but I am not looking for a wounded spirit that needs a healer so that it may move on to other purposes. I want land that will nurture and shelter generations of Logue Mathiases, giving and demanding that each person step up to the challenge of their own unique gift. I can imagine what that piece of land would look like. Now I just have to imagine what it wants me to look like!

I invite all of you to create a costume, a visual expression, that is a classified advertisement for what you want to draw into your life. My girls are getting this one as a homeschool assignment and we will get back to you later this week with our ideas.

In My Sister's Garden

2008-10-18T23:19:00.000-07:00

Last weekend, the girls and I made a wonderful marathon trip to my brother's home to meet the newest member of our extended family. Of the 48 hours we were gone, I got to hold the baby atleast 12 hours. Joy, Joy, Joy! There is nothing in the world like a new baby to make old memories and emotions fresh again. I was ten years old when my brother was born and I was certain he'd come straight from heaven just for me. His son looks so much like he did, my heart was doing weird time-warpy stuff.

In fact, the whole weekend felt like a long carnival ride but instead of the funhouse mirror doing fat/thin, I kept bouncing child/adult. It's happened to me other times visiting my family: they all still live in the same area where we grew up, each have children that look very much like they did
when they were little, and take their children to school with the children of the kids we graduated with. I'll find myself giggling about one of our old friends and be almost shocked when my teenage daughter comes in, asking what's so funny. It's not always fun and games - those old hurts seem to jump to mind just as quickly as the sentimental snapshots. Some trips, I frequently reprimand myself, "Lisa, how old are you?" just to get a grip.

This time however, my feet kept finding solid ground. I'd been prepared to have to struggle to keep my mouth shut. I've been branded the black sheep of the family, the weird sister, the "hippy". When it finally occurred to me to question the nature of that label, my brother graciously changed it to "the free-spirited" sister. Still, we live very different lives and I, being the big sister, worry. If my crazy worldview really does turn out to be accurate rather than wacky, I don't want them to be hurt. However, I promised myself that I wouldn't inventory their pantry or check their flashlight batteries or update their first aid kits - I was going to be "normal".

Living tucked away in your own reality can really warp your perspective. I am grinning now to imagine that I could have kept my mouth shut even with the best discipline. Lucky for me, it turns out my family is going to be just fine. Each of them, in their own lifelong way, has developed a support community. They all look very different from mine. None of them would label themselves prepared for disaster, sustainable, or free-spirited. But if the shit does hit the fan, I think they will have the courage and the brains to take care of their families with the same honor and commitment that I will take care of mine.

It's as if I saw, for the first time, two separate Americas. One is what I read on internet blogs, hear on the radio, see on the nightly news. While that paradigm seems so far from what Jeff and I have been able to build in our life, I guess I thought everyone not like us was a helpless victim of the Nightly News Paradigm. But I was blessed to be immersed in the resiliency of regular Americans for a weekend - people I know to be happy, stressed, grieving, poor, well-off, celebrating, struggling, toiling, distracted, hurting, and healing. In short, people fully involved in the business of living.

Whatever happens with the economy, with the elections, with the wars, the great majority of this world will be people more like my family than me or the folks making the Nightly News. I've let my attention focus on what was falling apart and how to protect my family from the shrapnel and missed seeing the durable weave of regular America. Like any fabric, I imagine there will be weak spots that simply cannot hold the weight of the falling paradigm. But the human species has been around for a very long time - I did not invent Adaptation.

The photos on this post are all herbs we found in my sister's garden. She just moved into a rental a month ago and, having not grown a garden of her own, wasn't aware of the incredible wealth she'd inherited. The last couple of hours with my family was spent picking and smelling, identifying and extolling the virtues of her unexpected sustainable homestead. Next Spring Break, maybe she'll let her big sister spend a week playing in her garden and making medicines to soothe the hurts I may not be there to bandage. In the meantime, each picture is linked to its Wikipedia entry. Maybe you will see something here that is in your sister's garden too!

Inward.....the ABC's of Getting a Grip

2008-10-07T09:28:00.000-07:00

Apples, Beets and Cheese, much more than just a grocery list! I have had a crazy feeling the last two weeks - like being in the eye of a rushing tornado, its winds choked with semi-trucks, cows, billboards and such that were never meant to fly. And here I stand, as still as I can so I don't inadvertently step in the way of one of those killer projectiles. In the place of stillness, I look around and find near me a bin of apples, two bins of beets, and several gallons of glorious raw milk.

What's a girl to do but go to work? So far, I've made spiced apple butter and honey apple butter. My girls were lamenting that the only jam we have in the house now is rhubarb. Next year, we will do better at making time to visit the u-pick raspberry patch and the wild blackberries. For now, we had applesauce bread with honey apple butter on top for lunch!

The apples were a gift from the small farm for whom Jeff works. He'd pruned quite a few of their trees this Spring and they are just loaded with apples. My heart swells witnessing the intimate pride of relationship this couple feels for their homestead - "Pick apples from this tree - they are perfect for applesauce. Those from the tree in the pasture there? Those are my pie apples, they're not quite ripe yet. Another week or so." It seems so simple and everyday. I guess that's the beauty - the interaction they have with all parts of their home, from the animals to the trees, to the soil and water is an everyday, every season thing. I am inspired and grounded and grateful.

I do love my beets. Everything about them is a piece of who I am and what I strive to bring to my life - their vibrant, deep, lovely red I remember vividly as round stains on our old melmac plates as a child. Just seeing the scarlet jars will make my mouth water as if I already hold their sweet, spicy, tart earthiness on my tongue. But......this is the first year that I've tried to preserve the intense health benefits of the beet greens. I dried the tops of the beets that I am now lacto-fermenting in our crock. Because there were so many, I put the base of our round American Harvester dehydrator in the bottom of our electric oven (after pulling the oven control knobs off!) and filled the oven racks with greens. It worked very well. It smelled very bad. No joke. I am going to be psyched this winter when I am making immune supporting soups that I dried all those greens but I just hope I can forget the smell when it comes time to do it again next year!

And cheese. I am so infatuated with making cheese! Who knew. I'd read books, read webpages, tasted other people's cheese but was too intimidated to make my own. I love to cook but I'm more the stand-at-the-cupboard-door-and-put-in-a-few-sprinkles-of-everything kind of creator. I don't do so well with following directions. Jeff said he would make the cheese and I could help. Great. Jeff is very good at following directions. He was also ready for bed by the time our to-do list got around to starting the cheese process. So I went for it. And it was great! If you have ever wanted to make cheese, I absolutely recommend the Deluxe Cheesemaking Kit from Leeners.com. It is inexpensive, straightforward, easy, and successful. The Farmstead Cheddar is delicious! My best tip is to use a double boiler for heating and maintaining the temperature for your curd. I've found the temperature stays quite steady when I remove the inner pot and just set it next to the pot of hot water on the stove. If it cools too much, I just replace it in the double boiler. Bottom line - if I can follow these instructions with the level of success we've had, anybody can.

This week, our whole family has begun working for a local gourmet potato farmer, harvesting acres of yellow, red, black, and russet potatoes. The weather has been kind and the company has been eminently enjoyable. All in all, not a bad way to ride out the storm.

Outward

2008-09-30T20:01:00.000-07:00

I was consumed Monday afternoon by the national drama in which our banking and governing systems now find themselves. I read both news and commentary on the news voraciously, looking for those special hidden messages that would reveal a truth. Frustrated, I declared, "I'm just not sure what to do!" My daughter calmly replied, "Milk the cow."

Sigh. She is right. Jeff and I did begin paying attention to those hidden messages several years ago and were able to change the path we walked upon to avoid what we saw as inevitable pitfalls. It was really hard a lot of the time. We went against most of what we'd been taught to expect of our "future" and certainly against the expectations of our friends and family. We just kept putting one foot in front of the other when we couldn't see any obvious path to the goal we had in mind. We've worked for peanuts, lived in a teepee, and learned skills most folks consider "unskilled labor". But the payoff is that we now feel flexible, adaptable, healthy, cohesive, and thus, in most ways, secure. So why am I still scared?

Because so many times in my life, I've experienced situations that were blatantly unjust, damaging, and irreversible. We've put blood, sweat, tears, and all of our cash into home and business contracts that were abruptly terminated. Without cause, without notice, without recourse other than protracted, expensive legal battles. I've also experienced times where I was flat out wrong myself and needed some serious adjustments to attitude and behavior that took time, intense focus, and no little personal pain to correct. I've made bad decisions, been in the wrong place at the wrong time, been victimized by those I respected, and frequently gotten the short end of the stick.

In short, I've had a grand human experience. Life is good AND Life sucks. Sometimes both at the same time. We have crashed and burned and gotten back up again. And crashed again. And tried again until we felt that our daily living more closely represented our deepest values. My life certainly doesn't match the "American Dream" anymore if what is meant by the term is a big house and a big car and a powerful job title. However, we are absolutely engaged in Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness.

I am angry that the folks who have the ability to seriously disrupt my life continue shouting that they have to save the credit system or something really terrible will happen. They never say what - it is not to be named. Sheesh. Crashes are terrible. Depressions are terrible. Lack of food and shelter and warmth for our elderly and our children should not be tolerated. But sometimes, the bad stuff cannot be avoided without giving up what we were initially working towards. I've pasted below a few of the most articulate articles that seemed to scrape the fear smear from the facts. We are in for a rough time no matter if Congress approves total immunity of the current administration or not. I want our government, of the People, by the People, and for the People, to hold onto a last remaining truth and go into the tough time without telling me it is for my own good. It is going to be bad. And we are going to come through it.

Perhaps the one news "find" that disturbed me most was this article from the UK Telegraph from October 30th, 2006. The depth of the playacting in Washington is revealed by this paragraph (remember, from 2006!):

"They should examine a recent report by the New York Fed warning that whenever the yield on 10-year Treasuries has fallen below 3-month yields for a stretch lasting over three months, it has led to each of the six recessions since 1968.

The full crunch hits 12 months later as the delayed effects of monetary tightening feed through, even if the Fed starts easing frantically in the meantime. By then it is too late. "There have been no false signals," it said.

As of last week, the yield curve was inverted by 29 basis points, was continuing to invert further, and had been negative for over three and a half months. If the Fed is right this time, the recession of 2007 is already baked into the pie. Those speculative positions may have to be unwound very fast."

This article was announcing the reactivation of the Working Group on Financial Markets created by President Reagan, now known as the Plunge Protection Team. You'll note that the membership of this Group is nearly identical to the Oversight Committee proposed by many Congressmen. The real prophecy is this line: "The only question is whether it uses taxpayer money to bail out investors directly, or merely co-ordinates action by Wall Street banks as in 1929. The level of moral hazard is subtly different."

In response, many Representative on Monday actually seemed to hearing the hundreds of thousands of Americans asking for a higher integrity:

Rep. Marcy Kaptur (D-Ohio): "The normal legislative process that should accompany a monumental proposal to bail out Wall Street has been shelved. Yes, shelved! Only a few insiders are doing the dealing. These criminals have so much power they can shut down the normal legislative process of the highest lawmaking body in this land. All the committees that should be scanning every word that is being negotiated have been benched. And that means the American people have been benched. We are constitutionally sworn to protect this country against all enemies foreign and domestic, and yes, my friends, there are enemies....The people who are pushing this bill are the very same one's who are responsible for the implosion on Wall Street. They were fraudulent then; and they are fraudulent now.We should say No to this deal".

Rep. Michael Burgess (R-Texas): "We have seen no bill. We have been here debating talking points ...House Republicans have been cut out of the process and derided by the leaders of the House Democrats as "unpatriotic" for not participating in supporting the bill. Mr. Speaker, I have been thrown out of more meetings in the last 24 hours than I ever thought possible as an elected official of 800,000 citizens of N. Texas....Since we didn't have hearings, since we didn't have markup, let's at least put this legislation up on the Internet for 24 hours and let the American people see what we have done in the dark of night. After all, I have never gotten more mail on a single issue than on this bill that is before us tonight."

Rep. Dennis Kucinich: "The $700B bailout bill is being driven by fear not fact. This is too much money, in too short of time, going to too few people, while too many questions remain unanswered. Why aren't we having hearings...Why aren't we considering any other alternatives other than giving $700 billion to Wall Street? Why aren't we passing new laws to stop the speculation which triggered this? Why aren't we putting up new regulatory structures to protect the investors? Why aren't we directly helping homeowners with their debt burdens? Why aren't we helping American families faced with bankruptcy? Isn't time for fundamental change to our debt-based monetary system so we can free ourselves from the manipulation of the Federal Reserve and the banks? Is this the US Congress or the Board of Directors of Goldman Sachs.

Tomorrow, October 1st, the Senate will vote on the Bailout Bill. BBC News offers this lovely summary:

It is possible that the sense of global crisis may - perversely - offer a way out of this.

American voters simply have not seen this as a crisis that affects their real lives on Main Street - it is seen as a welfare scheme for the humbled plutocrats of Wall Street.

If the problems deepen and people suddenly see unemployment rising because businesses cannot get money from the banks to pay their bills and honour their payrolls, then that sentiment might change.

That is the optimistic assessment - that American lawmakers and voters having registered their pain and anger will eventually fall into line and give the US Treasury the money it wants.

And lastly, I offer a true gem of reason and integrity I found on Sharon Astyk's blog:

"What is the distinction between “pathological poverty” and “ordinary human poverty?” Well, cast back in your heads to your grandparents or great-grandparents. Among the stories of hardship in post-war Europe and Asia, of recurring crises across the Globe, and of the Great Depression in America are likely to be moments that distinguish between the pathological poor. “We were very poor, but there was always food on the table.” “We were poor, but we didn’t really know it.” “It was a struggle, but we were happy.” We will also hear stories the other side of poverty - the pain of hunger, the blind terror of being turned off with no place to go, the deaths and the pointless losses and tragedies.

The question becomes how do we turn this story into one where most of us can say “We were poor, but we had enough - just enough, but enough.” And where our kids may grow up not really realizing just how poor we were? How do we accustom ourselves to the ordinary human unhappiness (which, after all, isn’t unhappiness every moment, merely a recognition that most people aren’t happy all the time) that is our shift in wealth, without allowing ourselves to fall through the floor, into the deeper stages of collapse?"

Grab the Truth

2008-09-21T18:45:00.000-07:00

The current media coverage about our economic crisis centers solely on an external "bailout". As an individual citizen, I have no impact on the strategy formulation nor action implementation. Yet my life will be ultimately impacted in unknown ways, as well as the lives of my children and likely my grandchildren before anything close to "normal" returns. Where is my personal power? Do I have any option other than going along with what the administration and Congress put into play?

My friend Kara shared the most extraordinary example of personal power on her Mother Henna blog. Answering her summons to jury duty seems to me to have been a Hera's Journey deluxe. Day one brought this response:

"But, honestly, I felt so victimized and dis-empowered, that I was barely coherent and by the time they took us back to the holding room while judge and attorneys made their decisions, I was in all-out tears. A kindly older gentleman, a fellow juror, tried to approach and comfort me. He said something about how we can't fight the system and sometime things just can't be changed."

How many times every single day do we receive that same message. Resistance is Futile, Just Go Along, You Have No Choice. But there are those who do manage to resist, to block out the thundering drumbeat of conformity and hold tight to personal truths. Kara did exactly that:

"The morning of day two, I sat squished in a seat, next to another of the hundred strangers, all squished in their seats in the holding room. Suddenly a thought occured to me. I am a Reiki master and teacher. And there was absolutely nothing nailing me to that chair. I gathered my things and got up. I began looking around for a spot where I could take off my shoes, sit cross legged, and begin to do Reiki. I found a piece of rug near the entrance of the holding room. I sat down. I began doing Reiki on myself. At first that was my only intention. To calm and center myself. But someone walked by me, and she looked stressed out completely. I thought to send a bit of Reiki with her. And then I looked at the floor. This is the floor that hundreds of thousands of people summoned to jury duty would walk across as they were herded to check in with the office staff. I began to ground Reiki into the floor itself setting out an intention that every person whose feet touched this floor in the past, present, and future would be blessed and might walk in peace."

Please do read the rest of Kara's post. She shows how one person, even in the midst of the most accepted, rigid Power Over structure we have in our communities today can navigate through the situation not as a victim but as a personal power point for her own values.

This notion of distilling a chaotic experience into a focused channel of power is further defined by Starhawk in her posts about the riot control at this year's Republican National Convention in St. Paul. Didn't hear about those? Me either, which is very scary. Sometimes, the burden carried by those few who are speaking for the many can be lightened by a surge of caring sent by the many. The non-violent protesters in St. Paul had very little such support as most of us had no idea they were there. And yet, they walked forward with what they knew to be true:

"The march heads up the street alongside the Capitol lawn, and then tries to turn across one of the bridges leading into downtown. The police move in, and block us.

There's a tense crowd of people on the bridge and filling the intersection. Around us are police in full riot gear and gas masks. There's also a group of bike cops, looking slightly underdressed in shorts and gas masks. They've brought in the Minnesota specials-a line of snowplows across the bridge. On them are perched black-masked cops in heavy leathers holding thick-muzzled rifles that shoot rubber bullets.

The energy is unfocused. Nobody knows quit what to do. It could all fall apart, in a moment, with the cops attacking the crowd, or it could remain a standoff for a long time. I am softly drumming, not quite sure what to do, when a young, African American woman with long
curls and a ring in her lip comes up and says, "Do you know how to sing, 'Aint' Gonna Study War No More?"

I shift the beat, we begin singing, and soon gather a small chorus that forms around us. A tiny, round, young black woman in spectacles steps in front. She has a large voice, and she takes over as lead singer. The chorus grows and a space opens up in the center of the intersection, that is soon filled with riders on bikes, circling around and around, counterclockwise. A young man turns a cartwheel. A clown on stilts appears, out of nowhere, and joins the ride. Suddenly, it's a circus in the street. The mood shifts and becomes almost festive.

My own mood has shifted, too. I've been practicing a more Buddhist-style meditation lately, just watching my breath in odd moments and being present to what's happening. I'm doing that now, breathing and drumming with the bikes and the song and the riot cops, and for no rational reason whatsoever I feel a surge of pure joy."

A surge of pure joy, the giving of Reiki for the blessing of peace to all who pass by ~ do these changes pay the rent or stop unconstitutional legislation? Perhaps not. But the day's reality for these two women became something wholly different than an experience of hopeless unimportance.

My personal story does not end with being fired. The rent will be paid, the cows will be milked, new strategies for income will be implemented. But there are two pieces of truth that ground me solidly outside the drama of Power Over. One truth sleeps peacefully in their room ~ my daughters have watched my joy in working at the clinic bombed into oblivion, my trust in my own judgement of character take another nasty nosedive, my struggle to accurately assess my self-worth, and the scramble to remain sheltered and fed. Reality for them is not global, national, nor even as small as the financial viability of one particular business in our community. Power looked like the great big breath, the gathering around the table, the teary but calm question, "Okay, here's what we've got to work with. Who has suggestions about what we do next?"

The first truth was the gift I give forward. My girls are becoming young women who know that Power doesn't always look powerful. It's okay to feel small and scared and alone because sometimes that is exactly what you are. Power isn't about holding all the cards or being able to shop your way out of a corner. It's about the willingness to look at a bad situation right in the face and decide if you did the best you were able to do. Power grows from all the many times you do this until it becomes a glowing core that can bend and change and admit mistakes and hold steady trusting your own honesty.

The second truth is the grace I've been gifted with and he also sleeps peacefully right now. In this window of cosmic Balance, a pageant of Male/Female, Power Over, Dictator/Victim blasted into my reality. I was able to recognize the abuse because it was so blatantly different from the relationship with which I have been blessed. It is not easy being married, no matter what your partnership looks like - it's the smallest and perhaps most often abused equal rights challenge available. It is entirely intimate, comprehensive, constant and rarely monitored by professional regulators. For me, power looked like Jeff wiping away my tears and saying, "Lisa Elaine, who are you? What have you got to work with?" Our vulnerability is external - a set of facts we don't often have control over. Our strength is anchored in truths that seem small in their very personal impact but with which we choose to move forward even when we don't know what will happen next.

For better or worse, I am adaptable - I've almost always got one more way of doing things that hasn't been tried and might just work. I have a strong task perspective - if a job must be done, I rarely consider the "status" of the work but get on with the small steps necessary for the big picture. I also cannot help hollering at big stone heads, even if it is only in my stories. Justice does matter.

On this Fall equinox, what is one truth about you? How can you give that one truth to yourself today? How can you give that one truth to the world today?

The Day the Cows Came Home, Part 2

2008-09-15T23:53:00.000-07:00

I'm always ready to turn a regular day into an occasion. One of my most honest career aspirations as a young woman was to be a Wedding Planner. The guidance counselors and college advisors all let me know I *should* have higher hopes for my talents ~ If only they could see me now! But I digress...

The arrival of John Quincy Adams, aka Quincy the Cute or Darth Quincy, and his esteemed mother Martha Dandridge Custis Washington was heralded with friendship and feasting. We received Quincy and are borrowing Martha from the same great family friends for whom we moved irrigation pipe this Summer. Our gratitude for their mentorship overfloweth. Definitely part of the Bliss.

Quincy, Martha, and Carnation, the bred heifer we initially agreed to purchase, represent a significant development in our permaculture homestead. One of the fundamental principles of permaculture as outlined in David Holmgren's excellent, accessible book Permaculture, Principles and Pathways Beyond Sustainability defines the importance of relationships in self-reliant systems:

each element performs many functions
each important function is supported by many elements

The cows obviously give us milk. Looked at more closely, milk cows transform forage plants (which we puny humans with our single belly cannot utilize) into mineral and enzyme rich nutrition. What we don't consume as a beverage, we turn into butter, cheese, kefir, yogurt and cream. What we don't use for these high value storable foods, we share with our chickens either alone as clabbered milk or added to grains to aid in their digestion. (Chickens are notoriously poor grain digesters, utilizing only a small percentage of the nutrition in whole grains.) Someday, Jeff's dream will come true and we'll have pigs to share this sprouted grain recipe with as well. This Fall, Martha will be allowed to "clean-up" the finished stalks of our Summer garden crops - adding fertilizer as her pointed hooves gently aerate the soil and work in the cover crop seed.

If all this weren't enough to set the Whole Life meter a-howling, consider this: we will purchase our winter hay provisions from the same great family. They called this morning to find out which particular part of which hay field we walked through six days a week for the last three months we want baled for our animals. Our answer was immediate. One field had been a glorious combination of yellow sweet clover, alfalfa, Timothy and Orchard grasses, and wild oats. All during August, the field was a heady mass of color, sweet scent, and the hum of bees. I wanted to roll in it, to bathe in it, to eat it every day forever. Alas, my aforementioned lack of an additional three stomachs prohibited such meal time enjoyment.

But wait, now Martha gets to eat that lush bouquet. And I get to drink the milk she so graciously creates from the hay and our pure well water. Getting a hint of the bliss? Permaculture homesteads can take quite a few years to establish simply because of the time it takes for individual systems to mature to the point of an interdependence which is not dependent upon my physical labor to connect the pieces. Sort of like trying to build a functioning ecosystem from scratch.

The day the cows came home felt like the hand of Grace connecting the dots for us, laying the path of a beautiful old growth forest at our feet if we were willing to step up. In the company of wonderful friends, we accept.

The Day the Cows Came Home

2008-09-13T22:21:00.000-07:00

I'm fairly blissing out right now and said as much to my daughters. Having spent most of their young lives participating in our homesteading efforts, a lovely dairy cow and little bull calf are just logical, albeit exciting, additions to our operation. For my husband and I, the event marks a very solid anchor in truly living a Whole Life. I suppose I should take a big breath and begin somewhere more near the beginning of this moment.

We've been ardent fans of raw milk for several years. Two books, The Untold Story of Milk by Ron Schmid, ND and The Milk Book by William Campbell Douglass II, MD were among our first major myth busters when we began our journey off the beaten path. At a family birthday celebration, we brought milk to go with the cake we'd baked. My nephew asked if it was "regular" milk to which my daughter enthusiastically declared, "Yes! It's fresh from the cow yesterday - her name's Dinah - and there's lots of cream on top." The young man took a step back and responded, "Well, what's regular to me must be different than regular to you."

The most jarring aspect of this common attitude toward raw milk is that pasteurization itself is actually the true new kid on the block, becoming standard dairy practice only because of federal regulation in the early to mid 1900's. It's very strange to me how many of our "modern" (less than 100 years old) definitions of normal, regular, or standard practice are really very radical deviations from the way we have lived our lives for centuries. I've listed several links for more information about the diverse benefits of raw milk at the end of this post. The point for now is that we became loyal raw milk drinkers because of its superior nutrition.

Jeff has had the great good fortune to apprentice with a local raw milk man. Three mornings each week, he helps milk, filter, and bottle white gold for on-farm sales. It didn't take many mornings to realize that our bottle of fresh milk was only a small part of dairy on the farm. In addition to making value-added dairy products like butter, yogurt, kefir, and cheese, the farm utilizes extra milk and whey to ferment grains, making their nutrition more available to chickens, ducks, pigs, even the dogs and ducks. Truly, not a drop was wasted.

This Spring however, there was a hitch in the giddyup. The Holstein Jersey cross who was supposed to calve on May Day didn't. Nor did she a week later, or even two weeks after that. Turns out she had never actually been successfully bred. Jeff's boss decided to have his other milk cows checked for pregnancy. Nary a baby in the bunch. A cow's gestation period is approximately nine months and breeding through Artificial Insemination can take several cycles before successful . For a small dairy with a tight production schedule (Oregon rule allows owners of three dairy cows or fewer to sell milk from the farm), this was a serious glitch.

While some quick cow trading resolved the issue, the whole story really got me to thinking. It just doesn't seem right, especially in these uncertain energy times, to rely on transportation and technology dependent practices for farm fertility. Why didn't anyone have a dairy bull? Survey showed that dairy bulls have a terrible reputation for extremely aggressive behavior. While it is quite normal for me to mouth off about "someone" taking on the challenge, it was still a surprise when our good friends responded, "Well now, we've just had a beautiful bull calf born yesterday. When should we deliver him?"

In the next post, you'll hear the rest of the story. Here are some great links to get you started busting some mainstream milk myths:

"Back in the 20s, Americans could buy fresh raw whole milk, real clabber and buttermilk, luscious naturally yellow butter, fresh farm cheeses and cream in various colors and thicknesses. Today's milk is accused of causing everything from allergies to heart disease to cancer, but when Americans could buy Real Milk, these diseases were rare. In fact, a supply of high quality dairy products was considered vital to American security and the economic well being of the nation. What's needed today is a return to humane, non-toxic, pasture-based dairying and small-scale traditional processing, in short . . .A Campaign for Real Milk." http://www.realmilk.com/

The Revolution Will Not Be Pasteurized Nathanael Johnson’s article for Harper’s Magazine

"When I sat at Schmidt’s breakfast table early one morning, glass in hand, I understood the possible consequences of my choice. All the competing science was there, along with the stories of epic sickness I’d heard. And I have to confess, the thought crossed my mind that if I got sick it would make a hell of a story. But when it comes down to it, here’s why I drank the raw milk. The sun had just come up, and we’d already finished three hours of work in the barn. I was filled with a righteous hunger. The table was laden with eggs from the chickens, salami from the pigs, jarred fruit, steaming porridge, cheese, and yogurt. Although dairy isn’t for everyone, I come from the people of the udder: my ancestors relied so heavily on milk that they passed down a mutation allowing me to digest lactose. For many generations my forefathers sat down to meals like this after the morning milking. It felt unambiguously right.

This, of course, is the very definition of bias: the conflation of what feels right with what is scientifically correct. But as it was, I could only hope that my biases were rooted in something more than nostalgia. Perhaps they were. The way a place feels won’t tell you anything about whether bacteria have breached the wall of sanitation, but it does reveal something about the overall health of an ecosystem. Humans have relied on such impressions to assess the quality of their food for most of history. Someday the uncertainties of dietary science will fall to manageable levels, but until then I will rely on my gut. I drained my cup and poured thick clabbered milk and apple syrup on my porridge. If any bacteria disagreed with my body, the conflict was too small to detect."

"People have been drinking raw milk from animals for thousands of years. Really, the term "raw" is a misnomer because it implies that all milk should be cooked, but that's a topic for another page! Onward..." http://www.raw-milk-facts.com/milk_history.html

Claim Your Character

2008-09-09T06:19:00.000-07:00

We'd love to have you join us here at Journey School! While every real place has a real limit to its ability to provide for the physical needs of the local community, there is no such limit in the imagination. You are invited to come along as we work through new ways of living that respect each other, our natural world, and our beautiful souls.

Begin by creating a character here. We'll send you a handmade base - basic clothing, hair, face, and shoes complete - and you create from there. Who do you want your character to be? What skills, gifts, dreams and fears do you imagine you would experience here? Every two weeks, we'll send you an assignment to develop the life of our character. This is your chance to try on any set of attributes you'd like to explore through the bimonthly prompts and actually customizing your character base. How do they dress, what tools or toys do they carry with them, what home do they ask to inhabit?

Whether your character will be born to the Journey School community, travel through it as a trader, long to immigrate here, or plot secretly to run away from us as soon as you are able, we hope that you work within the context of Journey School as a real place where the Declaration of Four Sacred Things provides the foundation for our construction, our politics, our economy, our celebrations, and our plans for the future. Just to keep it real, every six weeks, your character will receive a package from Journey School. Whether it's a raw resource, a beautiful gift, or a challenge, we have found some of our most precious moments have come from the least expected lesson.

Not Defense, Not Offense, but Adaptation

2008-09-05T20:33:00.000-07:00

When you are different than the majority of your neighbors, it can feel very vulnerable. On some level, we are always under scrutiny. While we don't often fear for our physical safety, the mental and emotional readiness to defend our choices is exercised regularly. In short, people want to know why we live as we do – are our beliefs somehow a threat to their own freedom to live as they choose?

If this were a clear cut challenge of defending our families and homesteads from an invading enemy, our response may be more in line with historical examples of defensive structures and offensive maneuvers. But these are our neighbors, our friends, sometimes even our extended family. It would break our hearts to close ourselves off from these folks just because we see the world through a different lens. We cannot allow ourselves the ancient mental/emotional armor of us-versus-them. When the only difference between people lies in the priorities or value system with which they make choices, then such tragic divisions are truly “all in our heads.” Instead, we admit that we cannot know for sure how people will react to perceived threats.

And if we cannot see for certain the dangers to our own way of life, our strategies cannot be primarily defensive or offensive. We must remain fully adaptive. Adaptive does not mean fickle, volatile, erratic, uncommitted, unstable, or unreliable. I know this for sure because of decades spent thinking and behaving as if it meant exactly that. I was the classic “pleaser” - trying to fit into my world by being whatever someone else needed me to be. Madeline L'Engle's novel Wind in the Door
cracked open this crazy assumption for me. A simple
challenge to one of her young characters to “learn to adapt while remaining wholly himself” stopped me in my tracks. I cried long and hard because I simply did not know what “wholly myself” even looked like. What do they say about the first step to recovery? In my case, I finally came to know who I am by a spontaneous list of who I am not. Extricating myself from the “Not” list became my path to a place unforeseen but somehow always known in my deepest self. Deconstructing a lifetime's worth of self-image and world view wasn't easy but the final, essential set of truths is an unparalleled gift. I'm still not confident saying what I will do in hypothetical situations but I know who I will be, what motivations will guide my choices.

So, like the community of Starhawk's Fifth Sacred Thing, we here at Journey School often start with what we know we don't want to do, and build from our Dedication to the Four Sacred Things in our response to sudden crises, possible threats, and just everyday living. This passage from the novel is an excellent example of such adaptive strategy:

“After the uprising, we found ourselves caught in a dilemma. We knew that war was responsible for shaping the world into all the forms we wanted to change – and yet there we were, surrounded by hostile enemies who might, at any moment, attack and destroy us. This was the dilemma that every peaceful culture has faced for the last five thousand years, at least. And this was our one advantage – that we had history behind us. We had seen all possible solutions played out, from resistance to retreat to acquiescence, and we knew none of them worked. That saved us a great deal of time. We didn't have to waste our energies stockpiling weapons or drilling troops; we could jump right to the heart of the matter, which was magic.”

“In what sense?” Madrone asked.

Lily nodded at Maya. “You remember that Dion Fortune quote you've always been so fond of? That magic is the art of changing consciousness at will? You can look at a war as a massing of arms and material and troops, but you can also see it as something else – as a delicate web of interwoven choices made by human beings, made out of a certain consciousness. The decision to order an attack, the choice to obey or disobey an order, to fire or not to fire a weapon. Armies and, indeed, any culture that supports them must convince the people that all the decisions are made already, and they have no choice. But that is never true. So, odd as it may seem, this is the terrain upon which we base our defense of this city – the landscape of consciousness.”

“...But I ask you, what is practical? Would it have been practical for us to devote our scarce resources and human energies to building weapons and recruiting a standing army, when we needed every scrap of earth and drop of water and the power of every human hand for survival, for healing the earth's wounds? War is the great waster, as much in the preparations for it as in the waging of it. We learned that, at least, from the last century, as that same military drained the country and destroyed our true wealth. But we have nothing left to waste. We would have traded an uncertain future for sure misery and still not have been able to withstand the armed might of the Stewards.”

“And where does that leave us, when armies come marching up the peninsula?” Maya asked.

“It leaves us with what we have built of this city and this watershed, which is in itself a possibility not counted on by those who would attack us. That is where our hope lies. We are what we wanted to become,” Lily said.

How We Learn

2008-09-02T06:30:00.000-07:00

Learning is a way of life at Journey School. In our early conversations, we found that while it seemed most families had a common philosophy of education, none of us could easily summarize it. Learning saturates all of our experiences, from toddlers to elder members of our community.

The world is changing so quickly, so dramatically, that we do not have the luxury of “the way things have always been done.” Flipping a switch, turning on a faucet, flushing the loo are reflex actions we have taken for granted. The first few times that the lights don't come on, water flow, or wastes disappear instantly are a shock. Our minds have become so conditioned to convenience that it is a real work-out to think through an entire sequence of actions required for generation, distribution, and disposal of daily functions – to track the problem back to the root cause and thus find a sustainable solution.

The younger community members actually have an
easier time creating and adapting to new strategies than those of us raised with quickie marts and online shopping. This effectively puts everyone on the same page – no hierarchies here! Of course, we all have our special talents, things we do better than anyone else. But the idea that the young are to be taught static lessons established by a disconnected authority has be trampled by necessity. We are moving into an unknown future. The lessons of the past can help us evaluate our situation but will surely mean our failure if we cannot move past conclusions already proven wrong. We don't have to crash into the brick wall just because we can see that we are speeding towards it!

One unforeseen benefit of this education philosophy has been the seriousness with which people approach special talents. So many “radical” improvements have come from following an idea all the way through to completion that it has become the norm immerse ourselves in our passions. I suppose this puts an element of responsibility, even discipline, on skills previously thought of as hobbies. Certainly, we listen to each other with our full attention now – too many times, a farmer's irrigation challenge has been solved by a computer programmer or builder's options for materials opened out by watching children play. Critical thinking, awareness, adaptability, and respect for the whole system within which our individual skill resides are the cornerstones of our education practice.

Welcome to Journey School

2008-08-30T01:59:00.000-07:00

Welcome to Journey School! As you can see by the photos, we clearly live in one of the most blessed places on Earth. While many of you may be familiar with the view in such beautiful country, how we live may seem different. If you sit right back, I'd be glad to tell the tale of how we got where we're going.

Our small community is very connected to the land that is our home. I suppose it was this one common passion that brought us all together. We'd be out working or playing or truly lazing about and a neighbor would happen by to lend a hand, throw a ball, or eat ice cream. Before long, we realized that not a single one of our new friends had reached this place without shattering the myths of childhood. Somehow, the litany of statements like, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” and “When I have kids...” and “When I retire...” weave a lovely garment you can't wait to wear. Like Cinderella's ball gown magically swirled out of thin air to settle around you and change your life forever. But that story comes with a necessary fairy godmother.

No matter our race, religion, gender,
or wealth, we had all been taught to expect an authority of one kind or another to know what was best for us, to make available those elements of food, shelter, entertainment, and recognition that we deserved after all our educated, earnest effort. Those of us who had been able to grab such a grand carrot from the stick were shocked to find it a fake, only a taste of the bigger carrot now hanging just up the road a ways.

Many had discovered the sly mechanism ensuring the carrot would always remain just ahead, never quite ours. Some tried to outsmart it, getting as much as they could and getting out while they could still recognize the trick. Some had been smacked down so hard, so young, they never even hoped for a great reward, always working their hearts out for what allotment they'd manage to wrest from the real world. In some way, we all crashed, all hit bottom, all finally stopped......sat down.......and let go of the carrot dream. In that ripping loss, each of us found an essential core reality – that set of naked truths we could finally trust in, build the rest of our lives upon.

And, by human accident or cosmic design, we found ourselves here together. The lack of “intention” in the formulation of our community allowed a powerful organic synthesis of our individual journeys. However, if our commitment to each other was to be durable, we still needed to be dedicated to a shared story. There was no choice; it had to be a more real story, one tied to the mixed-up good and bad of everyday life, not the promise of future reward. We came to the table with stacks of books, slips of paper, and bits of song – pieces of wisdom that had drawn our determined steps further down the unknown path forward from the painful crash sites. The writers and characters that had accompanied us this far were consulted again.

Without hesitation, we agreed that we could find no greater Mission Statement than The Declaration of the Four Sacred Things shared by Starhawk in her novel “Fifth Sacred Thing”. If you would get to know us here at Journey School, this is the place to start.

Declaration of the Four Sacred Things

The Earth is a living, conscious being. In company with cultures of many different times and places, we name these things as sacred: air, fire, water, and earth.

Whether we see them as the breath, energy, blood, and body of the Mother, or as the blessed gifts of a Creator, or as symbols of interconnected systems that sustain life, we know that nothing can live without them.

To call these things sacred is to say that they have a value beyond their usefulness for human ends, that they themselves become the standard by which our acts, our economics, our laws, and our purposes must be judged. No one has the right to appropriate them or profit from them at the expense of others. Any government that fails to protect them forfeits its legitimacy.

All people, all living things, are part of the earth life, and so are sacred. No one of us stands higher or lower than any other. Only justice can assure balance; only ecological balance can sustain freedom. Only in freedom can that fifth sacred thing we call spirit flourish in its full diversity.

To honor the sacred is to create conditions in which nourishment, sustenance, habitat, knowledge, freedom, and beauty can thrive. To honor the sacred is to make love possible.

To this we dedicate our curiosity, our will, our courage, our silences, and our voices. To this we dedicate our lives. --Starhawk--